The  Silent  Places  -  Stewar* 
Edward  white  -  "(Non-techni- 
cal) 


JTame  Of  Borrower    Date 


THE  SILENT  PLACES 


WORKS  of 
STEWART 


Garden  City,  New 
DOUBLEDAY.PAGE  &C& 

1919 


Copyright,  1904,  by 
STEWART  EDWARD  WHITE 


2226231 


THE   SILENT    PUACE8 


CHAPTER   ONE 

At  about  eight  o'clock  one  evening  of  the  early 
summer  a  group  of  men  were  seated  on  a  grass- 
plot  overlooking  a  broad  river.  The  sun  was  just 
setting  through  the  forest  fringe  directly  behind 
them. 

Of  this  group  some  reclined  in  the  short  grass, 
others  lay  flat  on  the  bank's  slope,  while  still  oth- 
ers leaned  against  the  carriages  of  two  highly  or- 
namented field-guns,  whose  embossed  muzzles  gaped 
silently  at  an  eastern  shore  nearly  two  miles  dis- 
tant. 

The  men  were  busy  with  soft-voiced  talk,  punct- 
uating their  remarks  with  low  laughter  of  a  sin- 
gularly infectious  character.  It  was  strange 
speech,  richly  embroidered  with  the  musical  names 
of  places,  with  unfamiliar  names  of  beasts,  and  with 
unintelligible  names  of  things.  Ken6gami,  Mam- 
dtawan,  Wenebogan,  Kapuskasing,  the  silver-fox, 
the  sea-otter,  the  sable,  the  wolverine,  the  musk-ox, 


4  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

parka,  babiche,  tump-line,  giddes, — these  and  oth- 
ers sang  like  arrows  cleaving  the  atmosphere  of 
commoner  words.  In  the  distant  woods  the  white- 
throats  and  olive  thrushes  called  in  a  language 
hardly  less  intelligible. 

There  scarcely  needed  the  row  of  glistening  birch- 
barks  below  the  men,  the  warehouse  with  its  pick- 
eted lane,  the  tall  flag-staff,  the  block-house  stock- 
ade, the  half-bred  women  chatting  over  the  low 
fences  of  the  log-houses,  the  squaws  wandering  to 
and  fro  in  picturesque  silence,  the  Indian  children 
playing  noisily  or  standing  in  awe  before  the  ve- 
randa of  the  white  ho\ise,  to  inform  the  initiated 
that  this  little  forest-  and  river-girt  settlement  was 
a  post  of  the  Honourable  the  Hudson's  Bay  Com- 
pany. The  time  of  sunset  and  the  direction  of  the 
river's  flow  would  have  indicated  a  high  latitude. 
The  mile-long  meadow,  with  its  Indian  camp,  the 
oval  of  forest,  the  immense  breadth  of  the  river 
identified  the  place  as  Conjuror's  House.  Thus  the 
blue  water  in  the  distance  was  James  Bay,  the  river 
was  the  Moose;  enjoying  his  Manila  cheroot  on  the 
Factory  veranda  with  the  other  officers  of  the  Com- 
pany was  Galen  Albret,  and  these  men  lounging 


CHAPTER  ONE  5 

on  the  river  bank  were  the  Company's  post-keep- 
ers and  runners,  the  travellers  of  the  Silent  Places. 

They  were  of  every  age  and  dressed  in  a  variety 
of  styles.  All  wore  ornamented  moccasins,  bead 
garters,  and  red  sashes  of  worsted.  As  to  the  rest, 
each  followed  his  taste.  So  in  the  group  could  be 
seen  bare  heads,  fillet-bound  heads,  covered  heads; 
shirt  sleeves,  woollen  jerseys,  and  long,  beautiful 
blanket  coats.  Two  things,  however,  proved  them 
akin.  They  all  possessed  a  lean,  wiry  hardness  of 
muscle  and  frame,  a  hawk-like  glance  of  the  eye, 
an  almost  emaciated  spareness  of  flesh  on  the  cheeks. 
They  all  smoked  pipes  of  strong  plug  tobacco. 

Whether  the  bronze  of  their  faces,  thrown  into 
relief  by  the  evening  glow,  the  frowning  steadiness 
of  their  eyes,  or  more  fancifully  the  background 
of  the  guns,  the  flag-staff  and  the  stockade  was 
most  responsible,  the  militant  impression  persisted 
strongly.  These  were  the  veterans  of  an  hundred 
battles.  They  were  of  the  stuff  forlorn  hopes  are 
fashioned  from.  A  great  enemy,  a  powerful  en- 
emy, an  enemy  to  be  respected  and  feared  had  hard- 
ened them  to  the  unyielding.  The  adversary  could 
almost  be  measured,  the  bitterness  of  the  struggle 


6  THE  SILENT   PLACES 

almost  be  gauged  from  the  scars  of  their  spirits; 
the  harshness  of  it,  the  cruelty  of  it,  the  wonderful 
immensity  of  it  that  should  so  fashion  the  souls  and 
flesh  of  men.  For  to  the  bearing  of  these  loungers 
clung  that  hint  of  greater  things  which  is  never 
lacking  to  those  who  have  called  the  deeps  of  man's 
nature  to  the  conquering. 

The  sun  dipped  to  the  horizon,  and  over  the  land- 
scape slipped  the  beautiful  north-country  haze  of 
crimson.  From  the  distant  forest  sounded  a  single 
mournful  wolf-howl.  At  once  the  sledge-dogs  an- 
swered in  chorus.  The  twilight  descended.  The 
men  gradually  fell  silent,  smoking  their  pipes, 
savouring  the  sharp  snow-tang,  grateful  to 
their  toughened  senses,  that  still  lingered  in  the 
air. 

Suddenly  out  of  the  dimness  loomed  the  tall  form 
of  an  Indian,  advancing  with  long,  straight  strides. 
In  a  moment  he  was  among  them  responding  com- 
posedly to  their  greetings. 

"Bo*  jou',  bo'  jou',  Me-en-gen,"  said  they. 

"Bo'  jou',  bo'  jou',"  said  he. 

He  touched  two  of  the  men  lightly  on  the  shoul- 
der. They  arose,  for  they  knew  him  as  the  bows- 


CHAPTER  ONE  7 

man  of  the  Factor's  canoe,  and  so  understood  that 
Galen  Albret  desired  their  presence. 

Me-en-gen  led  the  way  in  silence,  across  the  grass- 
plot,  past  the  flag-staff,  to  the  foot  of  the  steps  lead- 
ing to  the  Factory  veranda.  There  the  Indian  left 
them.  They  mounted  the  steps.  A  voice  halted 
them  in  the  square  of  light  cast  through  an  inter- 
vening room  from  a  lighted  inner  apartment. 

The  veranda  was  wide  and  low;  railed  in;  and, 
except  for  the  square  of  light,  cast  in  dimness.  A 
dozen  men  sat  in  chairs,  smoking.  Across  the  shaft 
of  light  the  smoke  eddied  strangely.  A  woman's 
voice  accompanied  softly  the  tinkle  of  a  piano  in- 
side. The  sounds,  like  the  lamplight,  were  softened 
by  the  distance  of  the  intervening  room. 

Of  the  men  on  the  veranda  Galen  Albret's  iden- 
tity alone  was  evident.  Grim,  four-square,  inert, 
his  very  way  of  sitting  his  chair,  as  though  it  were 
a  seat  of  judgment  and  he  the  interpreter  of  some 
fierce  blood-law,  betrayed  him.  From  under  the 
bushy  white  tufts  of  his  eyebrows  the  woodsmen 
felt  the  search  of  his  inspection.  Unconsciously 
they  squared  their  shoulders. 

The  older  had   some  fifty-five  or  sixty  years> 


8  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

though  his  frame  was  still  straight  and  athletic.  A 
narrow-brimmed  slouch  hat  shadowed  quiet,  gray 
eyes,  a  hawk  nose,  a  long  sweeping  white  mus- 
tache. His  hands  were  tanned  to  a  hard  mahogany- 
brown  carved  into  veins,  cords,  and  gnarled  joints. 
He  had  kindly  humour  in  the  wrinkles  of  his  eyes, 
the  slowly  developed  imagination  of  the  forest- 
dweller  in  the  deliberation  of  their  gaze,  and  an 
evident  hard  and  wiry  endurance.  His  dress,  from 
the  rough  pea-jacket  to  the  unornamented  mocca- 
sins, was  severely  plain. 

His  companion  was  hardly  more  than  a  bo;>  in 
years,  though  more  than  a  man  in  physical  develop- 
ment. In  every  respect  he  seemed  to  be  especially 
adapted  to  the  rigours  of  northern  life.  The  broad 
arch  of  his  chest,  the  plump  smoothness  of  his  mus- 
cles, above  all,  the  full  roundness  of  his  throat  in- 
dicated that  warmth-giving  blood,  and  plenty  of  it, 
would  be  pumped  generously  to  every  part  of  his 
body.  His  face  from  any  point  of  view  but  one  re- 
vealed a  handsome,  jaunty  boy,  whose  beard  was 
still  a  shade.  But  when  he  looked  at  one  directly, 
the  immaturity  fell  away.  This  might  have  been 
because  of  a  certain  confidence  of  experience  beyond 


CHAPTER  ONE  9 

what  most  boys  of  twenty  can  know,  or  it  might 
have  been  the  result  merely  of  a  physical  peculiar- 
ity. For  his  eyes  were  so  extraordinarily  close  to- 
gether that  they  seemed  by  their  very  proximity  to 
pinch  the  bridge  of  his  nose,  and  in  addition,  they 
possessed  a  queer  slant  or  cast  which  twinkled  per- 
petually now  in  one,  now  in  the  other.  It  invested 
him  at  once  with  an  air  singularly  remote  and  sin- 
gularly determined.  But  at  once  when  he  looked 
away  the  old  boyishness  returned,  enhanced  further 
by  a  certain  youthful  barbarity  in  the  details  of 
his  dress — a  slanted  heron's  feather  in  his  hat,  a 
beaded  knife-sheath,  an  excess  of  ornamentation  on 
his  garters  and  moccasins,  and  the  like. 

In  a  moment  one  of  the  men  on  the  veranda  be- 
gan to  talk.  It  was  not  Galen  Albret,  though  Ga- 
len Albret  had  summoned  them,  but  MacDonald, 
his  Chief  Trader  and  his  right-hand  man.  Galen 
Albret  himself  made  no  sign,  but  sat,  his  head  sunk 
forward,  watching  the  men's  faces  from  his  cavern- 
ous eyes. 

"You  have  been  called  for  especial  duty,"  began 
MacDonald,  shortly.  "It  is  volunteer  duty,  and 
you  need  not  go  unless  you  want  to.  We  have 


10  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

called  you  because  you  have  the  reputation  of  never 
having  failed.  That  is  not  much  for  you,  Herron, 
because  you  are  young.  Still  we  believe  in  you. 
But  you,  Bolton,  are  an  old  hand  on  the  Trail,  and 
it  means  a  good  deal." 

Galen  Albret  stirred.  MacDonald  shot  a  glance 
in  his  direction  and  hastened  on. 

"I  am  going  to  tell  you  what  we  want.  If  you 
don't  care  to  tackle  the  job,  you  must  know  nothing 
about  it.  That  is  distinctly  understood?" 

He  hitched  forward  nearer  the  light,  scanning 
the  men  carefully.  They  nodded. 

"Sure !"  added  Herron. 

"That's  all  right.  Do  you  men  remember  Jin- 
goss,  the  Ojibway,  who  outfitted  here  a  year  ago 
last  summer?" 

"Him  they  calls  th'  Weasel?"  inquired  Sam  Bol- 
ton. 

"That's  the  one.  Do  you  remember  him  well? 
how  he  looks?" 

"Yes,"  nodded  Sam  and  Dick  Herron  together. 

"We've  got  to  have  that  Indian." 

"Where  is  he?"  asked  Herron.  Sam  Bolton  re- 
mained silent. 


CHAPTER    ONE  11 

"That  is  for  you  to  find  out."  MacDonald  then 
went  on  to  explain  himself,  hitching  his  chair  still 
nearer,  and  lowering  his  voice.  "A  year  ago  last 
summer,"  said  he,  "he  got  his  'debt'  at  the  store  of 
two  hundred  castors*  which  he  was  to  pay  off  in 
pelts  the  following  spring.  He  never  came  back. 
I  don't  think  he  intends  to.  The  example  is  bad. 
It  has  never  happened  to  us  before.  Too  many 
Indians  get  credit  at  this  Post.  If  this  man  is  al- 
lowed to  go  unpunished,  we'll  be  due  for  all  sorts 
of  trouble  with  our  other  debtors.  Not  only  he, 
but  all  the  rest  of  them,  must  be  made  to  feel  that 
an  embezzler  is  going  to  be  caught,  every  time. 
They  all  know  he's  stolen  that  debt,  and  they're 
waiting  to  see  what  we're  going  to  do  about  it.  I 
tell  you  this  so  you'll  know  that  it's  important." 

"You  want  us  to  catch  him?"  said  Bolton,  more 
as  a  comment  than  an  inquiry. 

"Catch  him,  and  catch  him  alive !"  corrected  Mac- 
Donald.  "There  must  be  no  shooting.  We've  got 
to  punish  him  in  a  way  that  will  make  him  an  ex- 
ample. We've  got  to  allow  our  Indians  'debt'  in 
order  to  keep  them.  If  we  run  too  great  a  risk  of 

*  One  hundred  dollars. 


12  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

loss,  we  cannot  do  it.  That  is  a  grave  problem. 
In  case  of  success  you  shall  have  double  pay  for  the 
time  you  are  gone,  and  be  raised  two  ranks  in  the 
service.  Will  you  do  it?" 

Sam  Bolton  passed  his  emaciated,  gnarled  hand 
gropingly  across  his  mouth,  his  usual  precursor  of 
speech.  But  Galen  Albret  abruptly  interposed, 
speaking  directly,  with  authority,  as  was  his  habit. 

"Hold  on,"  said  he,  "I  want  no  doubt.  If  you 
accept  this,  you  must  not  fail.  Either  you  must 
come  back  with  that  Indian,  or  you  need  not  come 
back  at  all.  I  won't  accept  any  excuses  for  failure. 
I  won't  accept  any  failure.  It  does  not  matter  if  it 
takes  ten  years.  /  want  that  man." 

Abruptly  he  fell  silent.  After  a  moment  Mac- 
Donald  resumed  his  speech. 

"Think  well.    Let  me  know  in  the  morning." 

Bolton  again  passed  his  hand  gropingly  before 
his  mouth. 

"No  need  to  wait  for  me,"  said  he ;  "I'll  do  it." 

Dick  Herron  suddenly  laughed  aloud,  startling 
to  flight  the  gravities  of  the  moment. 

"If  Sam  here's  got  her  figured  out,  I've  no  need 
to  worry,"  he  asserted.  "I'm  with  you." 


CHAPTER   ONE  13 

"Very  well,"  agreed  MacDonald.  "Remember, 
this  must  be  kept  quiet.  Come  to  me  for  what  you 
need." 

"I  will  say  good-by  to  you  now,"  said  Galen 
Albret.  "I  do  not  wish  to  be  seen  talking  to  you 
to-morrow." 

The  woodsmen  stepped  forward,  and  solemnly 
shook  Galen  Albret's  hand.  He  did  not  arise  to 
greet  these  men  he  was  sending  out  into  the  Silent 
Places,  for  he  was  the  Factor,  and  not  to  many  is  it 
given  to  rule  a  country  so  rich  and  extended.  They 
nodded  in  turn  to  the  taciturn  smokers,  then  glided 
away  into  the  darkness  on  silent,  moccasined  feet. 

The  night  had  fallen.  Here  and  there  through 
the  gloom  shone  a  lamp.  Across  the  north  was  a 
dim  glow  of  phosphorescence,  precursor  of  the  au- 
rora, from  which  occasionally  trembled  for  an  in- 
stant a  single  shaft  of  light.  The  group  by  the 
bronze  field-cannon  were  humming  softly  the  sweet 
and  tender  cadences  of  La  Violette  dandine. 

Instinctively  the  two  woodsmen  paused  on  the 
hither  side  of  rejoining  their  companions.  Bol- 
ton's  eyes  were  already  clouded  with  the  trouble  of 
his  speculation.  Dick  Herron  glanced  at  his  com- 


14  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

rade  quizzically,  the  strange  cast  flickering  in  the 
wind  of  his  thought. 

"Oh,  Sam!"  said  he. 

"What?"  asked  the  older  man,  rousing. 

"Strikes  me  that  by  the  time  we  get  through 
drawin'  that  double  pay  on  this  job,  we'll  be  rich 

I — and  old!" 


CHAPTER    TWO 

The  men  stood  looking  vaguely  upward  at  the 
stars. 

Dick  Herron  whipped  the  grasses  with  a  switch 
he  had  broken  in  passing  a  willow-bush.  His  mind 
was  little  active.  Chiefly  he  regretted  the  good 
time  he  had  promised  himself  here  at  the  Post  after 
the  labour  of  an  early  spring  march  from  distant 
Winnipeg.  He  appreciated  the  difficulties  of  the 
undertaking,  but  idly,  as  something  that  hardly 
concerned  him.  The  details,  the  planning,  he  dis- 
missed from  his  mind,  confident  that  his  comrade 
would  rise  to  that.  In  time  Sam  Bolton  would  show 
him  the  point  at  which  he  was  to  bend  his  strength. 
Then  he  would  stoop  his  shoulders,  shut  his  eyes,  and 
apply  the  magnificent  brute  force  and  pluck  that 
was  in  him.  So  now  he  puckered  his  lips  to  the  sibi- 
lance  of  a  canoe-song,  and  waited. 

But  the  other,  Sam  Bolton,  the  veteran  woods- 
man, stood  in  rapt  contemplation,  his  wide-seeing, 

15 


16  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

gentle  eyes  of  the  old  man  staring  with  the  magni- 
tude of  his  revery. 

Beyond  the  black  velvet  band  lay  the  wilderness. 
There  was  the  trackless  country,  large  as  the  United 
States  itself,  with  its  great  forests,  its  unmapped 
bodies  of  water,  its  plains,  its  barren  grounds,  its 
mountains,  its  water  courses  wider  even  than  the 
Hudson  River.  Moose  and  bear,  true  lords  of  the 
forest,  he  might  see  any  summer  day.  Herds  of 
caribou,  sometimes  thousands  strong,  roamed  its 
woodlands  and  barrens.  Wolves,  lurking  or  bold 
as  their  prey  was  strong  or  weak,  clung  to  the  cari- 
bou bands  in  hope  of  a  victim.  Wolverines, — un- 
changed in  form  from  another  geological  period — 
marten,  mink,  fisher,  otter,  ermine,  muskrat,  lynx, 
foxes,  beaver  carried  on  their  varied  affairs  of  mur- 
der or  of  peaceful  industry.  Woods  Indians,  scarce- 
ly less  keen  of  sense  or  natural  of  life  than  the  ani- 
mals, dwelt  in  their  wigwams  of  bark  or  skins, 
trapped  and  fished,  made  their  long  migrations  as 
the  geese  turn  following  their  instinct.  Sun,  shad- 
ow, rain,  cold,  snow,  hunger,  plenty,  labour,  or  the 
peaceful  gliding  of  rivers,  these  had  watched  by  the 
Long  Trail  in  the  years  Sam  Bolton  had  followed 


CHAPTER   TWO  17 

it.  He  sensed  them  now  dimly,  instinctively,  wait- 
ing by  the  Trail  he  was  called  upon  to  follow. 

Sam  Bolton  had  lived  many  years  in  the  forest, 
and  many  years  alone.  Therefore  he  had  imag- 
ination. It  might  be  of  a  limited  quality,  but 
through  it  he  saw  things  in  their  essences. 

Now  from  the  safe  vantage  ground  of  the  camp, 
from  the  breathing  space  before  the  struggle,  he 
looked  out  upon  the  wilderness,  and  in  the  wilder- 
ness he  felt  the  old,  inimical  Presence  as  he  had  felt 
it  for  forty  years.  The  scars  of  that  long  combat 
throbbed  through  his  consciousness.  The  twisting 
of  his  strong  hands,  the  loosening  of  the  elasticity, 
the  humbling  of  the  spirit,  the  caution  that  had  dis- 
placed the  carelessness  of  youth,  the  keenness  of  eye, 
the  patience, — all  these  were  at  once  the  marks  of 
blows  and  the  spoils  of  victory  received  from  the 
Enemy.  The  wilderness,  calm,  ruthless,  just,  ter- 
rible, waited  in  the  shadow  of  the  forest,  seeking  no 
combat,  avoiding  none,  conquering  with  a  lofty  air 
of  predestination,  yielding  superbly  as  though  the 
moment's  victory  for  which  a  man  had  strained  the 
fibres  of  his  soul  were,  after  all,  a  little,  unimpor- 
tant thing;  never  weary,  never  exultant,  dispas- 


18  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

sionate,  inevitable,  mighty,  whose  emotions  were  si- 
lence, whose  speech  was  silence,  whose  most  terrible 
weapon  was  the  great  white  silence  that  smothered 
men's  spirits.  Sam  Bolton  clearly  saw  the  North. 
He  felt  against  him  the  steady  pressure  of  her  re- 
sistance. She  might  yield,  but  relentlessly  re- 
gained her  elasticity.  Men's  efforts  against  her 
would  tire;  the  mechanics  of  her  power  remained 
constant.  What  she  lost  in  the  moments  of  her  op- 
ponent's might,  she  recovered  in  the  hours  of  his 
weakness,  so  that  at  the  last  she  won,  poised  in  her 
original  equilibrium  above  the  bodies  of  her  antago- 
nists. Dimly  he  felt  these  things,  personifying  the 
wilderness  in  his  imagination  of  the  old  man,  ar- 
ranging half-consciously  his  weapons  of  craft  in 
their  due  order. 

Somewhere  out  beyond  in  those  woods,  at  any  one 
of  the  thirty-two  points  of  the  compass,  a  man  was 
lurking.  He  might  be  five  or  five  hundred  miles 
away.  He  was  an  expert  at  taking  care  of  him- 
self in  the  woods.  Abruptly  Sam  Bolton  began  to 
formulate  his  thoughts  aloud. 

"We  got  to  keep  him  or  anybody  else  from 
knowin'  we's  after  him,  Dick,"  said  he.  "Jest  as 


CHAPTER    TWO  19 

soon  as  he  knows  that,  it's  just  too  easy  for  him  to 
keep  out  of  our  way.  Lucky  Jingoss  is  an  Ojib- 
way,  and  his  people  are  way  off  south.  We  can 
fool  this  crowd  here  easy  enough;  we'll  tell  'em 
we're  looking  for  new  locations  for  winter  posts. 
But  she's  an  awful  big  country." 

"Which  way  '11  we  go  first?"  asked  Dick,  with* 
out,  however,  much  interest  in  the  reply.  What- 
ever Sam  decided  was  sure  to  be  all  right. 

"It's  this  way,"  replied  the  latter.  "He's  got  to 
trade  somewheres.  He  can't  come  into  any  of  the 
Posts  here  at  the  Bay.  What's  the  nearest  ?  Why, 
Missinaibie,  down  in  Lake  Superior  country.  Prob- 
ably he's  down  in  that  country  somewheres.  We'll 
start  south." 

"That's  Ojibway  country,"  hazarded  Dick  at 
random. 

"It's  Ojibway  country,  but  Jingoss  is  a  Georgian 
Bay  Ojibway.  Down  near  Missinaibie  every  In- 
jun has  his  own  hunting  district,  and  they're  differ- 
ent from  our  Crees, — they  stick  pretty  close  to 
their  district.  Any  strangers  trying  to  hunt  and 
trap  there  are  going  to  get  shot,  sure  pop.  That 
makes  me  think  that  if  Jingoss  has  gone  south,  and 


20  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

if  he's  trading  now  at  Missinaibie,  and  if  he  ain't 
chummed  up  with  some  of  them  Ojibways  to  get 
permission  to  trap  in  their  allotments,  and  if  he 
ain't  pushed  right  on  home  to  his  own  people  or  out 
west  to  Winnipeg  country,  then  most  likely  we'll 
find  him  somewheres  about  the  region  of  th'  Kabin- 
akagam." 

"So  we'll  go  up  th'  Missinaibie  River  first,"  sur- 
mised Dick. 

"That's  how  we'll  make  a  start,"  assented  Bol- 
ton. 

As  though  this  decision  had  terminated  an  inter- 
view, they  turned  with  one  accord  toward  the  dim 
group  of  their  companions.  As  they  approached, 
they  were  acclaimed. 

"Here  he  is,"  "Dick,  come  here,"  "Dick,  sing  u» 
the  song.  Chante  done  'Oncle  Naid,'  Deeck." 

And  Dick,  leaning  carelessly  against  the  breech 
of  the  field-guns,  in  a  rich,  husky  baritone  crooned 
to  the  far  north  the  soft  syllables  of  the  far  south. 

"  Oh,  there  was  an  old  darkey,  and  his  name  rvas  Uncle 

Ned, 
And  he  lived  long  ago,  long  ago  1 " 


CHAPTER    THREE 

In  the  selection  of  paddles  early  next  morning 
Sam  insisted  that  the  Indian  rule  be  observed,  meas- 
uring carefully  that  the  length  of  each  implement 
should  just  equal  the  height  of  its  wielder.  He 
chose  the  narrow  maple  blade,  that  it  might  not 
split  when  thrust  against  the  bottom  to  check  speed 
in  a  rapid.  Further  the  blades  were  stained  a  bril1- 
iant  orange. 

Dick  Herron  had  already  picked  one  of  a  dozen 
birch-bark  canoes  laid  away  under  the  bridge  over 
the  dry  coulee.  He  knew  a  good  canoe  as  you  would 
know  a  good  horse.  Fourteen  feet  it  measured,  of 
the  heavy  winter-cut  of  bark,  and  with  a  bottom  all 
of  one  piece,  without  cracks  or  large  knots. 

The  canoe  and  the  paddles  they  laid  at  the 
water's  edge.  Then  they  went  together  to  the  great 
warehouse,  behind  the  grill  of  whose  upper  room 
MacDonald  was  writing.  Ordinarily  the  trappers 

were  not  allowed  inside  the  grill,  but  Dick  and  Sam 

91 


*2  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

were  told  to  help  themselves  freely.  The  stocking 
Dick  left  to  his  older  companion,  assuring  himself 
merely  of  an  hundred  rounds  of  ammunition  for 
his  new  model  Winchester  rifle,  the  44-40  repeater, 
then  just  entering  the  outskirts  of  its  popularity. 

In  the  obscurity  of  the  wide,  low  room  the  old 
woodsman  moved  to  and  fro,  ducking  his  head  to 
avoid  things  hanging,  peering  into  corners,  asking 
an  occasional  question  of  MacDonald,  who  followed 
him  silently  about.  Two  small  steel  traps,  a  nar- 
row, small-meshed  fish-net,  a  fish-line  and  hooks, 
powder,  ball,  and  caps  for  the  old  man's  muzzle- 
loader,  a  sack  of  salt  were  first  laid  aside.  This 
represented  subsistence.  Then  matches,  a  flint-and- 
steel  machine,  two  four-point  blankets.  These 
meant  warmth.  Then  ten  pounds  of  plug  tobacco 
and  as  many  of  tea.  These  were  necessary  luxuries. 
And  finally  a  small  sr.ck  of  flour  and  a  side  of  bacon. 
These  were  merely  a  temporary  provision;  when 
they  should  be  exhausted,  the  men  would  rely  wholly 
on  the  forest. 

Sam  Bolton  hovered  over  the  pile,  after  it  was 
completed,  his  eyes  half  shut,  naming  over  its  items 
again  and  again,  assuring  himself  that  nothing 


CHAPTER  THREE  2S 

lacked.  At  his  side  MacDonald  made  sugges- 
tions. 

"Got  a  copper  pail,  Sam?  a  frying-pan?  cups? 
How  about  the  axe?  Better  have  an  extra  knife 
between  you.  Need  any  clothes?  Compass  all 
right?" 

To  each  of  these  questions  Sam  nodded  an  assent. 
So  MacDonald,  having  named  everything — with 
the  exception  of  the  canvas  square  to  be  used  as  a 
tarpaulin  or  a  tent,  and  soap  and  towel — fell  silent, 
convinced  that  he  could  do  nothing  more. 

But  Dick,  who  had  been  drumming  his  fingers 
idly  against  the  window,  turned  with  a  suggestion 
of  his  own. 

"How're  we  fixed  for  shoe  pacs?  I  haven't  got 
any." 

At  once  MacDonald  looked  blank. 

"By  George,  boys,  I  ain't  got  but  four  or  five 
pairs  of  moccasins  in  the  place !  There's  plenty  of 
oil  tan ;  I  can  fix  you  all  right  there.  But  smoke 
tans !  That  Abitibi  gang  mighty  near  cleaned  me 
out.  You'll  have  to  try  the  Indians." 

Accordingly  Bolt  on  and  Herron  took  their  way 
in  the  dusty  little  foot-trodden  path — there  were 


34  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

no  horses  in  that  frontier — between  the  Factor's 
residence  and  the  Clerk's  house,  down  the  meander- 
ing trail  through  the  high  grasses  of  the  meadow 
to  where  the  Indian  lodges  lifted  their  pointed  tops 
against  the  sky. 

The  wigwams  were  scattered  apparently  at  ran- 
dom. Before  each  a  fire  burned.  Women  and  girls 
busied  themselves  with  a  variety  of  camp-work. 
A  tame  crow  hopped  and  fluttered  here  and  there 
just  out  of  reach  of  the  pointed-nosed,  shaggy  wolf- 
dogs. 

The  latter  rushed  madly  forward  at  the  ap- 
proaching strangers,  yelping  in  a  curious,  long- 
drawn  bay,  more  suggestive  of  their  wolf  ancestors 
than  of  the  domestic  animal.  Dick  and  Sam  laid 
about  them  vigorously  with  short  staffs  they  had 
brought  for  the  purpose.  Immediately  the  dogs, 
recognising  their  dominance,  slunk  back.  Three 
men  sauntered  forward,  grinning  broadly  in  amia- 
ble greeting.  Two  or  three  women,  more  bashful 
than  the  rest,  scuttled  into  the  depths  of  wigwams 
out  of  sight.  A  multitude  of  children  concealed 
themselves  craftily,  like  a  covey  of  quail,  and 
focussed  their  bright,  bead-like  eyes  on  the  new- 


CHAPTER  THREE  95 

comers.  The  rest  of  the  camp  went  its  way 
unmoved. 

"Bo'  jou',  bo'  jou',"  greeted  Sam  Bolton. 

"Bo*  jou',  bo'  jou',"  replied  the  three. 

These  Indians  were  of  the  far  upper  country. 
They  spoke  no  English  nor  French,  and  adhered 
still  to  their  own  tribal  customs  and  religious  ob- 
servances. They  had  lingered  several  days  beyond 
their  time  for  the  purpose  of  conjuring.  In  fact 
at  this  very  moment  the  big  medicine  lodge  raised 
itself  in  the  centre  of  the  encampment  like  a  minia- 
ture circus  tent.  Sam  Bolton  addressed  the  two  in 
their  own  language. 

"We  wish  to  buy  many  moccasins  of  your  old 
women,"  said  Sam. 

Immediately  one  of  the  Indians  glided  away. 
From  time  to  time  during  the  next  few  minutes  he 
was  intermittently  visible  as  he  passed  from  the 
dark  interior  of  one  wigwam,  across  the  sunlight, 
and  into  the  dark  interior  of  another. 

The  older  of  the  two  still  in  company  of  the  white 
men  began  to  ask  questions. 

"The  Little  Father  is  about  to  make  a  long  jour- 
ney?" 


i«  THE    SILENT   PLACES 

"Does  one  buy  so  many  moccasins  for  a  short?" 

"He  goes  to  hunt  the  fur?" 

"Perhaps." 

"In  what  direction  does  he  set  the  bow  of  his 
canoe?' 

Suddenly  Dick  Herron,  who  had,  as  usual,  been 
paying  attention  to  almost  anything  rather  than 
the  matter  in  hand,  darted  suddenly  toward  a  clump 
of  grass.  In  a  moment  he  straightened  his  back  to 
hold  at  arm's  length  a  struggling  little  boy.  At  the 
instant  of  his  seizure  the  child  uttered  a  sharp  cry 
of  fright,  then  closed  his  lips  in  the  stoicism  of  his 
race. 

That  one  cry  was  enough,  however.  Rescue 
darted  from  the  nearest  wigwam.  A  flying  figure 
covered  the  little  distance  in  a  dozen  graceful  leaps, 
snatched  the  child  from  the  young  man's  hands 
and  stood,  one  foot  advanced,  breast  heaving,  a  pal- 
pitating, wild  thing,  like  a  symbol  of  defiance. 

The  girl  belonged  distinctly  to  the  more  attrac- 
tive type ;  if,  required  but  little  imagination  to  en- 
dow her  with  real  beauty.  Her  figure  was  straight 
and  slim  and  well-proportioned,  her  eyes  large,  her 
face  oval  and  quite  devoid  of  the  broad,  high- 


CHAPTER  THREE  27 

cheeked  stupidity  so  common  in  the  northern  races. 
At  the  moment  she  flashed  like  a  brand  with  quick- 
breathed  anger  and  fear. 

Dick  looked  at  her  at  first  with  amazement,  then 
with  mingled  admiration  and  mischief.  He  uttered 
a  ferocious  growl  and  lowered  his  shoulders  as 
though  about  to  charge.  Immediately  the  defiance 
broke.  The  girl  turned  and  fled,  plunging  like  a 
rabbit  into  the  first  shelter  that  offered,  pursued  by 
shrieks  of  delight  from  the  old  squaws,  a  pleased 
roar  from  Dick,  and  the  laughter  of  the  Indian  men 
themselves. 

"May-may-gwan,"*  said  the  oldest  Indian,  nam- 
ing her,  "foster  sister  to  the  boy  you  had 
caught." 

"She  is  Ojibway,  then,"  exclaimed  Dick,  catch- 
ing at  the  Ojibway  word. 

"Ae,"  admitted  the  Cree,  indifferently.  Such 
inclusions  of  another  tribe,  either  by  adoption  or 
marriage,  are  not  uncommon. 

At  this  moment  the  third  Indian  approached. 

"No  moccasins,"  he  reported.  "Plenty  buck- 
6kin." 

•TheButterflyc 


«8  THE   SILENT   PLACES 

Sam  Bolton  looked  troubled.  This  meant  a  de- 
lay. However,  it  could  not  be  avoided. 

"Let  the  old  women  make  some,"  he  decided. 

The  Cree  old-man  shook  his  head. 

"That  cannot  be.  There  is  not  time.  We  turn 
our  canoes  to  the  Missinaibie  by  next  sun." 

Sam  pondered  again,  turning  over  in  his  mind 
this  fresh  complication.  But  Dick,  kicking  the 
earth  clods  in  impatience,  broke  in. 

"Well,  we're  going  by  the  Missinaibie,  too.  Let 
the  women  make  the  moccasins.  We  will  accom- 
pany you." 

"That  might  be,"  replied  the  Indian. 

"It  is  well,"  said  Bolton. 

An  old  woman  was  summoned.     She  measured 
her  customers'  feet  with  a  buckskin  thong.     Then 
they  departed  without  further  ceremony.    An  Ind 
ian  rarely  says  farewell.    When  his  business  is  fin- 
ished he  goes. 

"Dick,"  said  Sam,  "you  ought  not  to  have  broke 
in  there." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  the  other,  puz- 
•led. 

"Suggesting  our  travelling  with  them." 


CHAPTER   THREE  *9 

"Why  ?"  cried  Dick  in  astonishment.  "Ain't  you 
never  travelled  with  Injuns  before?" 

"That  ain't  th'  question.  Did  you  notice  that 
third  Injun?  the  one  who  didn't  do  any  talking ?" 

"Sure!    What  of  him?" 

"Well,  he's  an  Ojibway.  Th'  rest  are  Wood 
Crees.  And  I  miss  my  guess  if  he  ain't  a  bad  cus- 
tomer. He  watched  us  mighty  close,  and  his  eyes 
are  bad.  He's  sharp.  He's  one  of  that  wondering 
kind.  He's  wondering  now  who  we  are,  and  where 
we're  going,  and  why  we're  hitting  so  long  a  trail. 
And  what's  more,  he  belongs  to  this  Jingoss's  peo- 
ple in  a  roundabout  sort  of  way.  He's  worse  than 
fifty  Crees.  Maybe  he  knows  all  about  Jingoss,  and 
if  he  does,  he'll  get  suspicious  the  minute  we  angle 
down  into  that  country." 

"Let's  let  'em  slide,  then,"  suggested  Dick,  im- 
patiently. "Let's  buy  some  buckskin  and  make  our 
own  moccasins." 

"Too  late  now,"  negatived  Sam.  "To  back  out 
would  be  bad." 

"Oh,  well,  you're  just  borrowing  trouble  any- 
way," laughed  Dick. 

"Maybe,  maybe,"  acknowledged  the  other }  "but 


SO  THE   SILENT   PLACES 

borrowing  trouble,  and  then  figuring  out  how 
you're  going  to  meet  it  if  it  comes  to  you  in  good 
earnest,  is  mighty  good  woodcraft." 

"Sam,"  burst  out  Dick,  whose  attention  had  been 
caught  by  a  word  in  his  companion's  first  speech, 
and  whose  mind  had  been  running  on  it  throughout 
the  ensuing  discussion,  "did  you  notice  that  girl? 
She's  a  tearing  little  beauty !" 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

By  now  it  was  nearly  noon.  The  travellers  car- 
ried the  packs  they  had  made  up  down  to  the 
water-side  where  the  canoe  lay.  Although  the  Ind- 
ians would  not  get  under  way  until  the  following 
morning,  it  had  been  decided  to  push  on  at  once, 
thus  avoiding  the  confusion  of  a  crowded  start. 

In  the  course  of  the  morning's  business  the  news 
of  their  expedition  had  noised  abroad.  Especially 
were  they  commiserated  by  the  other  runners  and 
post-keepers.  During  all  the  winter  these  men  had 
lived  under  the  frown  of  the  North,  conducting 
their  affairs  confidently  yet  with  caution,  sure  of 
themselves,  yet  never  sure  of  the  great  power  in 
whose  tolerance  they  existed,  in  spite  of  whom  they 
accomplished.  Now  was  the  appointed  time  of  rest. 
In  the  relaxation  of  the  thought  they  found  pity 
for  those  ordered  out  of  seasop  into  the  Silent 
Places. 

So  at  the  river's  bank  Sam  Bolton  and  Dick  Her- 
81 


82  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

ron,  ready  for  departure,  found  a  group  gathered. 
It  was  supposed  that  these  men  were  to  act  as 
scouts,  to  reconnoitre  shrewdly  in  the  Enemy's 
country,  to  spy  out  the  land,  so  that  in  the  autumn 
the  Company  might  throw  into  the  wilderness  new 
posts,  to  be  inhabited  during  the  colder  months. 

"Look  heem  Bla'k  Bevair  Lak,"  advised  Louis 
Placide;  "I  t'ink  dose  Ojibway  mak'  heem  lots  mar- 
ten, mink  la  bas." 

"Lads,"  said  Kern,  the  trader  at  OH  Brunswick 
House,  "if  you're  going  up  th'  Missindibie  just 
cast  an  eye  on  my  cache  at  Gull  Lake,  and  see  that 
the  carcajaus  have  let  her  be." 

Young  Herbert  was  curious.  "Where  are  you 
headed,  boys?"  he  inquired. 

But  Ki-wa-nee,  the  trusty,  the  trader  at  Flying 
Post,  the  only  Indian  in  the  Company's  service  hold- 
ing rank  as  a  commissioned  officer,  grunted  in  con- 
tempt at  the  question,  while  Achard,  of  New  Bruns- 
wick House,  motioned  warningly  toward  the  groups 
of  Indian  trappers  in  the  background.  "Hush, 
boy,"  said  he  to  Herbert,  "news  travels,  and  in  the 
south  are  the  Free  Traders  to  snatch  at  a  new  coun- 
try." 


CHAPTER    FOUR  88 

By  now  the  voyageurs  had  turned  their  canoe 
over,  slid  it  into  the  water,  and  piled  the  duffle 
amidships. 

But  before  they  had  time  to  step  aboard,  came 
Virginia  Albret,  then  seventeen  years  old  and  as 
slender  and  graceful  as  a  fawn.  The  daughter  of 
the  Factor,  she  had  acquired  a  habit  of  command 
that  became  her  well.  While  she  enunciated  her 
few  and  simple  words  of  well-wishing,  she  looked 
straight  out  at  them  from  deep  black  eyes.  The 
two  woodsmen,  awed  into  a  vast  respect,  fumbled 
their  caps  in  their  hands  and  noted,  in  the  uncon- 
scious manner  of  the  forest  frequenter,  the  fresh 
dusk  rose  of  her  skin,  the  sharply  defined  red  of  her 
lips,  the  soft  wheat  colour  of  her  hair.  It  was  a 
gracious  memory  to  carry  into  the  Silent  Places, 
and  was  in  itself  well  worth  the  bestowal.  However, 
Virginia,  as  was  her  habit,  gave  presents.  On  each 
she  bestowed  a  long  silk  handkerchief.  Sam  Bol- 
ton,  with  a  muttered  word  of  thanks,  stuffed  his 
awkwardly  into  his  shirt  bosom.  Dick,  on  the  other 
hand,  with  a  gesture  half  of  gallantry,  half  of  bra- 
vado, stripped  his  own  handkerchief  from  his  neck 
and  cast  it  far  into  the  current,  knotting  the  girl'f 


34  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

gift  in  its  place.  Virginia  smiled.  A  strong  push 
sent  the  canoe  into  the  current.  They  began  to 
paddle  up-stream. 

For  perhaps  a  mile  their  course  threaded  in  and 
out  the  channel  of  a  number  of  islands,  then  shot 
ft. em  into  the  broad  reach  of  the  Moose  itself. 
There  they  set  themselves  to  straight-forward  pad- 
dling, hugging  closely  the  shore  that  they  might 
escape  as  much  as  possible  the  full  strength  of  the 
current.  In  this  manner  they  made  rapid  progress, 
for,  of  course,  they  paddled  in  the  Indian  fashion 
— without  bending  either  elbow,  and  with  a  strong 
thrust  forward  of  the  shoulders  at  the  end  of  the 
stroke — and  they  understood  well  how  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  each  little  back  eddy. 

After  an  hour  and  a  half  they  came  to  the  first 
unimportant  rapids,  where  they  were  forced  to  drop 
their  paddles  and  to  use  the  long  spruce-poles  they 
had  cut  and  peeled  that  morning.  Dick  had  the 
bow.  It  was  beautiful  to  see  him  standing  boldly 
upright,  his  feet  apart,  leaning  back  against  the 
pressure,  making  head  against  the  hurrying  water. 
In  a  moment  the  canoe  reached  the  point  of  hardest 
suction,  where  the  river  broke  over  the  descent. 


CHAPTER  FOUR  35 

Then  the  young  man,  taking  a  deep  breath,  put 
forth  the  strength  that  was  in  him.  Sam  Bolton, 
poised  in  the  stern,  holding  the  canoe  while  his  com- 
panion took  a  fresh  hold,  noted  with  approval  the 
boy's  physical  power,  the  certainty  of  his  skill  at 
the  difficult  river  work,  the  accuracy  of  his  calcula- 
tions. Whatever  his  heedlessness,  Dick  Herron 
knew  his  trade.  It  was,  indeed,  a  powerful  instru- 
ment that  Galen  Albret  in  his  wisdom  had  placed  in 
Sam  Bolton's  hands. 

The  canoe,  torn  from  the  rapid's  grasp,  shot  into 
the  smooth  water  above.  Calmly  Sam  and  Dick 
shook  the  water  from  their  poles  and  laid  them 
across  the  thwarts.  The  swish  click!  swish  click! 
of  the  paddles  resumed. 

Now  the  river  began  to  hurry  in  the  ten-mile  de- 
scent below  the  Abftibi.  Although  the  smooth  rush 
of  water  was  unbroken  by  the  swirls  of  rapids,  nev- 
ertheless the  current  proved  too  strong  for  pad- 
dling. The  voyagers  were  forced  again  to  the 
canoe  poles,  and  so  toiled  in  graceful  but  strenuous 
labour  the  remaining  hours  of  their  day's  journey. 
When  finally  they  drew  ashore  for  the  night,  they 
had  but  just  passed  the  mouth  of  French  River. 


36  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

To  men  as  skilled  as  they,  the  making  of  camp 
was  a  brief  affair.  Dick,  with  his  axe,  cleared  the 
space  of  underbrush,  and  sought  dry  wood  for  fuel. 
The  older  man  in  the  meantime  hunted  about  until 
he  found  a  dead  white-birch  sapling.  This  he  eas- 
ily thrust  to  the  ground  with  a  strong  push  of  his 
hand.  The  jar  burst  here  and  there  the  hard  en- 
velope of  the  birch  bark  to  expose  a  quantity  of 
half-powdery,  decayed  wood,  dry  as  tinder  and  al- 
most as  inflammable  as  gunpowder.  Into  a  hand- 
ful of  this  Sam  threw  the  sparks  from  his  flint  and 
steel.  The  bark  itself  fed  admirably  the  first  flame. 
By  the  time  Dick  returned,  the  fire  was  ready  for 
his  fuel. 

They  cooked  tea  in  the  copper  pail,  and  roasted 
bacon  on  the  ends  of  switches.  This,  with  bread 
from  the  Post,  constituted  their  meal.  After  sup- 
per they  smoked,  banked  the  fire  with  green  wood, 
and  rolled  themselves  in  their  blankets  to  sleep.  It 
was  summer,  so  they  did  not  trouble  to  pitch  their 
shelter. 

The  night  died  into  silence.  Slowly  the  fire 
worked  from  within  through  the  chinks  of  the  green 
logs.  Forest  creatures  paused  to  stare  at  it  with 


CHAPTER    FOUR  37 

steady  eyes,  from  which  flashed  back  a  blaze  as  in- 
tense as  the  fire's  own.  An  owl  took  his  station  near 
and  began  to  call.  Overhead  the  brilliant  aurora 
of  the  Far  North  palpitated  in  a  silence  that  seemed 
uncanny  when  coupled  with  such  intensity  of 
movement.  Shadows  stole  here  and  there  like  aco- 
lytes. Breezes  rose  and  died  like  the  passing  of  a 
throng.  The  woods  were  peopled  with  uncanny  in- 
fluences, intangible,  unreal,  yet  potent  with  the 
symbolism  of  the  unknown  Presence  watching 
these  men.  The  North,  calm,  patient,  biding  her 
time,  serene  in  the  assurance  of  might,  drew  close 
to  the  camp  in  the  wilderness. 

By  and  by  a  little  pack  of  wolves  came  and 
squatted  on  their  haunches  just  in  the  shadow. 
They  were  well  fed  and  harmless,  but  they  sat  there 
blinking  lazily  at  the  flames,  their  tongues  lolling, 
exactly  like  so  many  shaggy  and  good-humoured 
dogs.  About  two  o'clock  Dick  rolled  out  of  his 
blanket  and  replenished  the  fire.  He  did  it  somno- 
lently, his  eyes  vacant,  his  expression  that  of  a  child, 
Then  he  took  a  half-comprehending  glance  at  the 
heaven's  promise  of  fair  weather,  and  sank  again 
into  the  warmth  of  his  blanket.  The  wolves  had  not 
stirred* 


CHAPTER   FIVE 

N&w  the  small  sack  of  flour  and  the  side  of  bacon 
and  the  loose  provisions  brought  from  the  Post 
could  last  but  a  little  time,  and  the  journey  was  like 
to  be  long.  The  travellers  were  to  be  forced  from 
now  on,  just  as  are  the  wolves,  the  eagles,  the 
hawks,  the  carca j  ous,  and  other  predatory  creatures 
of  the  woods,  to  give  their  first  thoughts  to  the 
day's  sustenance.  All  other  considerations  gave 
way  to  this.  This  was  the  first,  the  daily  tribute  to 
be  wrested  from  the  stubborn  grasp  of  the  North. 
Winning  that,  anything  was  possible ;  failing  that, 
nothing  could  follow  but  defeat.  Therefore,  val- 
uable exceedingly  were  the  two  little  steel  traps  and 
the  twelve-foot  length  of  gill-net,  the  sharp,  thin 
knives  in  the  beaded  sheaths,  and  especially  precious, 
precious  above  all  things  else,  the  three  hundred 
rounds  of  ammunition  for  the  rifles.  They  must  be 

guarded  and  cared  for  and  saved. 
38 


CHAPTER    FIVE  39 

Therefore  an  incident  of  the  early  afternoon  was 
more  than  welcome. 

All  the  morning  they  had  toiled  against  the  cur- 
rent, sometimes  poling,  sometimes  "tracking"  by 
means  of  a  sixty-foot  cod-line.  Dick  looped  this 
across  his  chest  and  pulled  like  a  horse  on  the  tow- 
path,  while  Sam  Bolton  sat  in  the  stern  with  the 
steering-paddle.  The  banks  were  sometimes  pre- 
cipitous, sometimes  stony,  sometimes  grown  to  the 
water's  edge  with  thick  vegetation.  Dick  had  often 
to  wade,  often  to  climb  and  scramble,  sometimes 
even  to  leap  from  one  foothold  to  another.  Only 
rarely  did  he  enjoy  level  footing  and  the  oppor- 
tunity for  a  straight  pull.  Suddenly  in  a  shallow 
pool,  near  the  river's  edge,  and  bordered  with 
waist-high  grass,  he  came  upon  a  flock  of  black 
ducks.  They  were  full  grown,  but  as  yet  unable  to 
fly.  Dick  dropped  his  tow-line  and  ran  forward 
with  a  shout.  At  once  the  ducks  became  confused, 
scattering  in  all  directions,  squawking  madly, 
spattering  the  water.  The  mother  flew.  The 
brood,  instead  of  making  for  the  open  river,  where 
it  would  have  been  safe,  scuttled  into  the  tall 
grasses. 


40  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

Here  was  the  chance  for  fresh  meat  without  the 
expenditure  of  a  shot.  Sam  Bolton  promptly  dis- 
embarked. To  us  it  would  have  seemed  a  simple 
matter.  But  the  black  duck  is  an  expert  at  con- 
cealment, even  in  the  open.  He  can  do  wonders  at 
it  when  assisted  by  the  shadows  of  long  grass.  And 
when  too  closely  approached  he  can  glide  away  to 
right  and  left  like  a  snake,  leaving  no  rustle  to  be- 
tray his  passage.  Five  minutes  passed  before  the 
first  was  discovered.  Then  it  was  only  because 
Dick's  keen  eye  had  detected  a  faintly  stirring 
grass-blade  ten  feet  away,  and  because  Dick's  quick 
muscles  had  brought  him  like  a  tiger  to  the  spot. 
He  held  up  his  victim  by  the  neck. 

"Good  enough,"  growled  Sam. 

And  although  they  had  seen  nine  ducks  go  into 
the  grass  plot,  which  was  not  more  than  fifty  feet 
across,  they  succeeded  in  finding  but  three.  How- 
ever, they  were  satisfied. 

In  spite  of  the  deliberation  of  their  journeying, 
the  Indians  did  not  overtake  them  until  nearly 
dark.  It  was  just  above  the  junction  of  the  Abitibi. 
The  river  was  without  current,  the  atmosphere  with- 
out the  suspicion  of  a  breeze.  Down  to  the  very 


CHAPTER    FIVE  41 

water's  edge  grew  the  forest,  so  velvet-dark  that  one 
could  not  have  guessed  where  the  shadow  left  off 
and  the  reflection  began.  Not  a  ripple  disturbed 
the  peace  of  the  water,  nor  a  harsh  sound  the  twi- 
light peace  of  the  air.  Sam  and  Dick  had  paddled 
for  some  time  close  to  one  bank,  and  now  had  paused 
to  enjoy  their  pipes  and  the  cool  of  the  evening. 
Suddenly  against  the  reflected  sky  at  the  lower 
bend  a  canoe  loomed  into  sight,  and  crept  smoothly 
and  noiselessly  under  the  forest  shadow  of  the  op- 
posite bank.  Another  followed,  then  another,  and 
another  and  still  another  in  regular  interval.  Not 
a  sound  could  be  heard.  In  the  distance  their  occu- 
pants gave  the  illusion  of  cowled  figures, — the  Ind- 
ian women  close  wrapped  in  their  shawls,  dropping 
their  heads  modestly  or  turning  them  aside  as  their 
customs  commanded  them  to  do  on  encountering 
strangers.  Against  the  evening  glow  of  the  re- 
flected sky  for  a  single  instant  they  stood  out  in 
the  bright  yellow  of  the  new  birch-bark,  the  glow 
of  warm  colour  on  the  women's  dress.  Then  instan- 
taneously, in  the  darkness  of  the  opposite  bank, 
they  faded  wraith-like  and  tenuous.  Like  phan- 
toms of  the  past  they  glided  by,  a  river's  width 


42  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

away;  then  vanished  around  the  upper  bend.     A 

moment  later  the  river  was  empty. 

"Th'  squaws  goin'  ahead  to  start  camp,"  com- 
mented Sam  Bolton,  indifferently;  "we'll  have  th* 
bucks  along  pretty  quick." 

They  drove  their  paddles  strongly,  and  drifted 
to  the  middle  of  the  river. 

Soon  became  audible  shouts,  cries,  and  laughter, 
the  click  of  canoe  poles.  The  business  of  the  day 
was  over.  Until  nearly  sundown  the  men's  canoes 
had  led,  silent,  circumspect,  seeking  game  at  every 
bend  of  the  river.  Now  the  squaws  had  gone  on  to 
make  camp.  No  more  game  was  to  be  expected. 
The  band  relaxed,  joking,  skylarking,  glad  to  be 
relieved  for  a  little  while  of  the  strain  of  attention. 

In  a  moment  the  canoes  appeared,  a  long,  un- 
broken string,  led  by  Haukemah.  In  the  bow  sat 
the  chief's  son,  a  lad  of  nine,  wielding  his  little  pad- 
dle skilfully,  already  intelligent  to  twist  the  prow 
sharply  away  from  submerged  rocks,  learning  to 
be  a  canoe-man  so  that  in  the  time  to  come  he  might 
go  on  the  Long  Trail. 

Each  canoe  contained,  besides  its  two  occupants, 
a  variety  of  household  goods,  and  a  dog  or  two 


CHAPTER    FIVE  43 

eoiled  and  motionless,  his  sharp  nose  resting  between 
his  outstretched  forepaws.  The  tame  crow  occu- 
pied an  ingenious  cage  of  twisted  osiers. 

Haukemah  greeted  the  two  white  men  cordially, 
and  stopped  paddling  to  light  his  pipe.  One  by 
one  the  other  canoes  joined  them.  A  faint  haze  of 
tobacco  rose  from  the  drifting  group. 

"My  brothers  have  made  a  long  sun,"  observed 
old  Haukemah.  "We,  too,  have  hastened.  Now 
we  have  met,  and  it  is  well.  Down  past  the  white 
rock  it  became  the  fortune  of  Two-fingers  to  slay 
a  caribou  that  stood  by  the  little  water.*  Also 
had  we  whitefish  the  evening  before.  Past  the 
Island  of  the  Three  Trees  were  signs  of  moose." 
He  was  telling  them  the  news,  as  one  who  passed 
the  time  of  day. 

"We  have  killed  but  neenee-sheeb,  the  duck,"  re- 
plied Dick,  holding  up  one  of  the  victims  by  the 
neck,  "nor  have  we  seen  the  trail  of  game." 

"Ah  hah,"  replied  Haukemah,  politely. 

He  picked  up  his  paddle.  It  was  the  signal  to 
start. 

"Drop  in  astern,"  said  Dick  to  his  companion  in 
*  A  «pring. 


44.  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

English,  "it's  the  light  of  the  evening,  and  I'm 
going  to  troll  for  a  pickerel." 

One  by  one  the  canoes  fell  into  line.  Now,  late 
in  the  day,  the  travel  was  most  leisurely.  A  single 
strong  stroke  of  the  paddle  was  always  succeeded 
by  a  pause  of  contemplation.  Nevertheless  the 
light  craft  skimmed  on  with  almost  extraordinary 
buoyancy,  and  in  silent  regularity  the  wooded 
points  of  the  river  succeeded  one  another. 

Sam  busied  himself  with  the  trolling-spoon,  but 
as  soon  as  the  last  canoe  was  well  beyond  hearing 
he  burst  out : 

"Dick,  did  you  notice  the  Chippewa?" 

"No.    What?" 

"He  understands  English." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"He  was  right  behind  us  when  you  told  me  you 
were  goin'  to  try  the  fishing,  and  he  moved  out  th' 
way  before  we'd  raised  our  paddles." 

"Might  have  been  an  accident." 

"Perhaps,  but  I  don't  believe  it.  He  looked  too 
almighty  innocent.  Another  thing,  did  you  notice 
he  was  alone  in  his  canoe?" 

"What  of  it?" 


CHAPTER    FIVE  45 

"Shows  he  ain't  noways  popular  with  th'  rest. 

Generally  they  pair  off.    There's  mostly  something 

•hady  about  these  renegades." 
"Well?" 
*Oh,  nothing.    Only  we  got  to  be  careful." 


CHAPTER    SIX 

Camp  was  made  among  the  trees  of  an  elevated 
bank  above  a  small  brook. 

Already  the  Indian  women  had  pitched  the  shel- 
ters, spreading  squares  of  canvas,  strips  of  birch- 
bark  or  tanned  skins  over  roughly  improvised  lean- 
to  poles.  A  half  dozen  tiny  fires,  too,  they  had 
built,  over  which  some  were  at  the  moment  en- 
gaged in  hanging  as  many  kettles.  Several  of  the 
younger  women  were  cleaning  fish  and  threading 
them  on  switches.  Others  brought  in  the  small 
twigs  for  fuel.  Among  them  could  be  seen  May- 
may-gwan,  the  young  Ojibway  girl,  gliding  here 
and  there,  eyes  downcast,  inexpressibly  graceful  in 
contrast  with  the  Crees. 

At  once  on  landing  the  men  took  up  their  share 
of  the  work.  Like  the  birds  of  the  air  and  the  beasts 
of  the  wood  their  first  thoughts  turned  to  the  assur- 
ance of  food.  Two  young  fellows  stretched  a  gill- 
net  across  the  mouth  of  the  creek.  Others  scattered 

in  search  of  favourable  spots  in  which  to  set  the 

46 


CHAPTER  SIX  47 

musk-rat  traps,  to  hang  snares  for  rabbits  and 
grouse. 

Soon  the  camp  took  on  the  air  of  age,  of  long 
establishment,  that  is  so  suddenly  to  be  won  in  the 
forest.  The  kettles  began  to  bubble;  the  impaled 
fish  to  turn  brown.  A  delicious  odour  of  open-air 
cooking  permeated  the  air.  Men  filled  pipes  and 
smoked  in  contemplation ;  children  warmed  them- 
selves as  near  the  tiny  fires  as  they  dared.  Out  of 
the  dense  blackness  of  the  forest  from  time  to  time 
staggered  what  at  first  looked  to  be  an  uncouth 
and  misshapen  monster,  but  which  presently  re- 
solved itself  into  an  Indian  leaning  under  a  burden 
of  spruce-boughs,  so  smoothly  laid  along  the  haft 
of  a  long  forked  stick  that  the  bearer  of  the  burden 
could  sling  it  across  his  shoulder  like  a  bale  of  hay. 
As  he  threw  it  to  the  ground,  a  delicate  spice-like 
aroma  disengaged  itself  to  mingle  with  the  smell  of 
cooking.  Just  at  the  edge  of  camp  sat  the  wolf- 
dogs,  their  yellow  eyes  gleaming,  waiting  in  pa- 
tience for  their  tardy  share. 

After  the  meal  the  women  drew  apart.  Dick's 
eyes  roved  in  vain,  seeking  a  glimpse  of  the  Ojib- 
way  girl.  He  was  too  familiar  with  Indian  eti- 


48  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

quette  to  make  an  advance,  and  in  fact  his  interest 

was  but  languidly  aroused. 

The  men  sat  about  the  larger  fire  smoking  It 
was  the  hour  of  relaxation.  In  the  blaze  their 
handsome  or  strong-lined  brown  faces  lighted  good- 
humouredly.  They  talked  and  laughed  in  low 
tones,  the  long  syllables  of  their  language  lisping 
and  hissing  in  strange  analogy  to  the  noises  of  the 
fire  or  the  forest  or  the  rapids  or  some  other  natural 
thing.  Their  speech  was  of  the  chances  of  the 
woods  and  the  approaching  visit  to  their  Ojibway 
brothers  in  the  south.  For  this  they  had  brought 
their  grand  ceremonial  robes  of  deerskin,  now 
stowed  securely  in  bags.  The  white  men  were  silent. 
In  a  little  while  the  pipes  were  finished.  The  camp 
was  asleep.  Through  the  ashes  and  the  embers 
prowled  the  wolf-dogs,  but  half-fed,  seeking 
scraps.  Soon  they  took  to  the  beach  in  search  of 
cast-up  fish.  There  they  wandered  all  night  long 
under  the  moon  voicing  their  immemorial  wrongs 
to  the  silenced  forest. 

Almost  at  first  streak  of  dawn  the  women  were 
abroad.  Shortly  after,  the  men  visited  their  traps 
and  lifted  the  nets.  In  this  land  and  season  of 


CHAPTER  SIX  49 

plenty  the  catch  had  been  good.  The  snares  had 
strangled  three  hares;  the  steel  traps  had  caught 
five  musk-rats,  which  are  very  good  eating  in  spite 
of  their  appearance  ;  the  net  had  intercepted  a  num- 
ber of  pickerel,  suckers,  and  river  whitefish.  This, 
with  the  meat  of  the  caribou,  shot  by  Two-fingers 
the  day  before,  and  the  supplies  brought  from  the 
Post,  made  ample  provision. 

Nevertheless,  when  the  camp  had  been  struck  and 
the  canoes  loaded,  the  order  of  march  was  reversed. 
Now  the  men  took  the  lead  by  a  good  margin,  and 
the  women  and  children  followed.  For  in  the 
wooded  country  game  drinks  early. 

Before  setting  out,  however,  old  Haukemah 
blazed  a  fair  clean  place  on  a  fir-tree,  and  with 
hard  charcoal  from  the  fire  marked  on  it  these 
characters  : 


Mf.f 


r 


r  6  *  4  *  6' 

6    f  .<3    <    L    < 


50  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

"Can  you  read  Injun  writin'?"  asked  Dick.  "I 
can't." 

"Yes,"  replied  Sam,  "learned  her  when  I  was 
snowed  up  one  winter  with  Scar-Face  down  by  the 
Burwash  Lake  country."  He  squinted  his  eyes, 
reading  the  syllables  slowly. 

"  'Abichi-ka-menot  Moosamik-ka-ja  yank.  Mis- 
sowa  edookan  owasi  sek  negi — '  Why,  it's  Ojibway, 
not  Cree,"  he  exclaimed.  "They're  just  leaving  a 
record.  'Good  journey  from  Moose  Factory.  Big 
game  has  been  seen.'  Funny  how  plumb  curious  an 
Injun  is.  They  ain't  one  could  come  along  here  and 
see  th'  signs  of  this  camp  and  rest  easy  'till  he'd 
figgered  out  how  many  they  were,  and  where  they 
were  going,  and  what  they  were  doing,  and  all 
about  it.  These  records  are  a  kind-hearted  try  to 
save  other  Injuns  that  come  along  a  whole  lot  of 
trouble.  That's  why  old  Haukemah  wrote  it  in 
Ojibway  'stead  of  Cree:  this  is  by  rights  Ojibway 
country." 

"We'd  better  pike  out,  if  we  don't  want  to  get 
back  with  th'  squaws,"  suggested  Dick. 

About  two  hours  before  noon,  while  the  men's 
squadron  was  paddling  slowly  along  a  flat  bank 


CHAPTER  SIX  51 

overgrown  with  grass  and  bushes,  Dick  and  Sam 
perceived  a  sudden  excitement  in  the  leading  canoes. 
Haukemah  stopped,  then  cautiously  backed  until 
well  behind  the  screen  of  the  point.  The  other  ca- 
noes followed  his  example.  In  a  moment  they  were 
all  headed  down  stream,  creeping  along  noiselessly 
without  lifting  their  paddles  from  the  water. 

"They've  seen  some  game  beyant  the  point," 
whispered  Dick.  "Wonder  what  it  is?" 

But  instead  of  pausing  when  out  of  earshot  for 
the  purpose  of  uncasing  the  guns  or  landing  a 
stalking  party,  the  Indians  crept  gradually  from 
the  shore,  caught  the  current,  and  shot  away  down 
stream  in  the  direction  from  which  they  had  come. 

"It's  a  bear,"  said  Sam,  quietly.  "They've  gone 
to  get  their  war-paint  on." 

The  men  rested  the  bow  of  their  canoe  lightly 
against  the  shore,  and  waited.  In  a  short  time  the 
Indian  canoes  reappeared. 

"Say,  they've  surely  got  th'  dry  goods!"  com- 
mented Dick,  amused. 

In  the  short  interval  that  had  elapsed,  the  Ind- 
ians had  intercepted  their  women,  unpacked  their 
baggage,  and  arrayed  themselves  in  their  finest 


52  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

dress  of  ceremony.  Buckskin  elaborately  em- 
broidered with  beads  and  silks  in  the  flower  pattern, 
ornaments  of  brass  and  silver,  sacred  skins  of  the 
beaver,  broad  dashes  of  ochre  and  vermilion  on  the 
naked  skin,  twisted  streamers  of  coloured  wool — all 
added  to  the  barbaric  gorgeousness  of  the  old-time 
savage  in  his  native  state.  Each  bowsman  carried 
a  long  brass-bound  forty-five  "trade-gun,"  war- 
ranted to  kill  up  to  ten  yards. 

"It's  surely  a  nifty  outfit!"  commented  Sam, 
half  admiringly. 

A  half  dozen  of  the  younger  men  were  landed. 
At  once  they  disappeared  in  the  underbrush.  Al- 
though the  two  white  men  strained  their  keen  senses 
they  were  unable  to  distinguish  by  sight  or  sound 
the  progress  of  the  party  through  the  bushes. 

"I  guess  they're  hunters,  all  right,"  conceded 
Dick. 

The  other  men  waited  like  bronze  statues.  After 
a  long  interval  a  pine-warbler  uttered  its  lisping 
note.  Immediately  the  paddles  dipped  in  the  silent 
deer-stalker's  stroke,  and  the  cavalcade  crept  for- 
ward around  the  point. 

Dick  swept  the  shore  with  his  eye,  but  saw  noth- 


CHAPTER  SIX  53 

ing.  Then  all  heard  plainly  a  half-smothered  grunt 
of  satisfaction,  followed  by  a  deep  drawn  breath. 
Phantom-like,  without  apparently  the  slightest  di- 
recting motion,  the  bows  of  the  canoes  swung  like 
wind-vanes  to  point  toward  a  little  heap  of  drift- 
logs  under  the  shadow  of  an  elder  bush.  The  bear 
was  wallowing  in  the  cool,  wet  sand,  and  evidently 
enjoying  it.  A  moment  later  he  stuck  his  head 
over  the  pile  of  driftwood,  and  indulged  in  a  lei- 
surely survey  of  the  river. 

His  eye  was  introspective,  vacant,  his  mouth  was 
half  open,  and  his  tongue  lolled  out  so  comically 
that  Dick  almost  laughed  aloud.  No  one  moved  by 
so  much  as  a  hand's  breadth.  The  bear  dropped 
back  to  his  cooling  sand  with  a  sigh  of  voluptuous 
pleasure.  The  canoes  drew  a  little  nearer. 

Now  old  Haukemah  rose  to  his  height  in  the  bow 
of  his  canoe,  and  began  to  speak  rapidly  in  a  low 
voice.  Immediately  the  animal  bobbed  into  sight 
again,  his  wicked  little  eyes  snapping  with  intelli- 
gence. It  took  him  some  moments  to  determine 
what  these  motionless,  bright-coloured  objects 
might  be.  Then  he  turned  toward  the  land,  but 
stopped  short  as  his  awakened  senses  brought  him 


54  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

the  reek  of  the  young  men  who  had  hemmed  in  his 
shoreward  escape.  He  was  not  yet  thoroughly 
alarmed,  so  stood  there  swaying  uneasily  back  and 
forth,  after  the  manner  of  bears,  while  Haukemah 
spoke  swiftly  in  the  soft  Cree  tongue. 

"Oh,  makwa,  our  little  brother,"  he  said,  "we 
come  to  you  not  in  anger,  nor  in  disrespect.  We 
come  to  do  you  a  kindness.  Here  is  hunger  and 
cold  and  enemies.  In  the  Afterland  is  only  happi- 
ness. So  if  we  shoot  you,  oh  makwa,  our  little 
brother,  be  not  angry  with  us." 

He  raised  his  trade-gun  and  pulled  the  trigger. 
A  scattering  volley  broke  from  the  other  canoes 
and  from  the  young  men  concealed  in  the  bushes. 

Now  a  trade-gun  is  a  gun  meant  to  trade.  It  is 
a  section  of  what  looks  to  be  gas-pipe,  bound  by 
brass  bands  to  a  long,  clumsy,  wooden  stick  that 
extends  within  an  inch  of  the  end  of  the  barrel.  It 
is  supposed  to  shoot  ball  or  shot.  As  a  matter  of 
fact  the  marksman's  success  depends  more  on  his 
luck  than  his  skill.  Were  it  not  for  the  Woods-Ind- 
ian's extraordinary  powers  of  still-hunting  so  that 
he  can  generally  approach  very  near  to  his  game, 
his  success  would  be  small  indeed. 


CHAPTER    SIX  55 

With  the  shock  of  a  dozen  little  bullets  the  bear 
went  down,  snarling  and  biting  and  scattering  the 
sand,  but  was  immediately  afoot  again.  A  black 
bear  is  not  a  particularly  dangerous  beast  in  ordi- 
nary circumstances — but  occasionally  he  contrib- 
utes quite  a  surprise  to  the  experience  of  those  who 
encounter  him.  This  bear  was  badly  wounded  and 
cruelly  frightened.  His  keen  sense  of  smell  in- 
formed him  that  the  bushes  contained  enemies 
— how  many  he  did  not  know,  but  they  were  con- 
cealed, unknown,  and  therefore  dreadful.  In  front 
of  him  was  something  definite.  Before  the  aston- 
ished Indians  could  back  water,  he  had  dashed  into 
the  shallows,  and  planted  his  paws  on  the  bow  of  old 
Haukemah's  canoe. 

A  simultaneous  cry  of  alarm  burst  from  the  other 
Indians.  Some  began  frantically  to  recharge  their 
muzzle-loading  trade-guns;  others  dashed  toward 
the  spot  as  rapidly  as  paddle  or  moccasin  could 
bring  them.  Haukemah  himself  roused  valiantly  to 
the  defence,  but  was  promptly  upset  and  pounced 
upon  by  the  enraged  animal.  A  smother  of  spra} 
enveloped  the  scene.  Dick  Herron  rose  suddenly 
to  his  feet  and  shot.  The  bear  collapsed  into  the 


56  THE    SILENT   PLACES 

muddied  water,  his  head  doubled  under,  a  thin 
stream  of  arterial  blood  stringing  away  down  the 
current.  Haukemah  and  his  steersman  rose  drip- 
ping. A  short  pause  of  silence  ensued. 

"Well,  you  are  a  wonder!"  ejaculated  Sam  Bol- 
ton  at  last.  "How  in  thunder  did  you  do  that?  I 
couldn't  make  nothing  out  of  that  tangle — at  least 
nothing  clear  enough  to  shoot  at !" 

"Luck,"  replied  Dick,  briefly.  "I  took  a  snap 
shot,  and  happened  to  make  it." 

"You  ran  mighty  big  chances  of  winning  old 
Haukemah,"  objected  Sam. 

"Sure!  But  I  didn't,"  answered  Dick,  conclu- 
sively. 

The  Indians  gathered  to  examine  in  respectful 
admiration.  Dick's  bullet  had  passed  from  ear  to 
ear.  To  them  it  was  wonderful  shooting,  as  in- 
deed it  would  have  been  had  it  indicated  anything 
but  the  most  reckless  luck.  Haukemah  was  some- 
what disgusted  at  the  wetting  of  his  finery,  but  the 
bear  is  a  sacred  animal,  and  even  ceremonial  dress 
and  an  explanation  of  the  motives  that  demanded 
his  death  might  not  be  sufficient  to  appease  his 
divinity.  The  women's  squadron  appeared  about 


CHAPTER  SIX  5? 

the  bend,  and  added  their  cries  of  rejoicing  to  those 
of  their  husbands  and  brothers. 

The  beautiful  buckskin  garments  were  hastily 
exchanged  for  ordinary  apparel.  By  dint  of  much 
wading,  tugging,  and  rolling  the  carcass  was 
teased  to  the  dry  beach.  There  the  body  was  se- 
curely anchored  by  the  paws  to  small  trees,  and  the 
work  of  skinning  and  butchering  began. 

Not  a  shred  was  wasted.  Whatever  flesh  would 
not  be  consumed  within  a  few  days  they  cut  into 
very  thin  strips  and  hung  across  poles  to  dry. 
Scraps  went  to  the  dogs,  who  were  for  once  well  fed. 
Three  of  the  older  squaws  went  to  work  with  bone 
scrapers  to  tan  the  hide.  In  this  season,  while  the 
fur  was  not  as  long  as  it  would  be  later,  it  was  fine 
and  new.  The  other  squaws  pitched  camp.  No 
right-minded  Indian  would  dream  of  travelling 
further  with  such  a  feast  in  prospect. 

While  these  things  were  preparing,  the  older 
men  cleaned  and  washed  the  bear's  skull  very  care- 
fully. Then  they  cut  a  tall  pole,  on  the  end  of 
which  they  fastened  the  skull,  and  finished  by  plant 
ing  the  whole  affair  securely  near  the  running 
water.  When  the  skull  should  ha\e  remained  ther* 


58  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

for  the  space  of  twelve  moons,  the  sacred  spirit  of 
the  departed  beast  would  be  appeased.  For  that 
reason  Haukemah  would  not  here  leave  his  custom- 
ary hieroglyphic  record  when  he  should  break  camp. 
If  an  enemy  should  happen  along,  he  could  do  harm 
to  Haukemah  simply  by  overturning  the  trophy, 
whereas  an  unidentified  skull  might  belong  to  a 
friend,  and  so  would  be  let  alone  on  the  chance. 
For  that  reason,  too,  when  they  broke  camp  the 
following  day,  the  expert  trailers  took  pains  to 
obliterate  the  more  characteristic  indications  of 
their  stay. 

Now  abruptly  the  weather  changed.  The  sky 
became  overcast  with  low,  gray  clouds  hurrying 
from  the  northwest.  It  grew  cold.  After  a  few 
hours  of  indecision  it  began  to  rain,  dashing  the 
chill  water  in  savage  gusts.  Amidships  in  each  ca- 
noe the  household  goods  were  protected  carefully 
by  means  of  the  wigwam  covers,  but  the  people 
themselves  sat  patiently,  exposed  to  the  force  of  the 
storm.  Water  streamed  from  their  hair,  over  their 
high  cheeks,  to  drip  upon  their  already  sodden 
clothing.  The  buckskin  of  their  moccasins  sucked 
water  like  so  many  sponges.  They  stepped  indif- 


CHAPTER  SIX  59 

ferently  in  and  out  of  the  river, — for  as  to  their 
legs,  necessarily  much  exposed,  they  could  get  if 
wetter — and  it  was  very  cold.  Whenever  they 
landed  the  grass  and  bushes  completed  the  soaking. 
By  night  each  and  every  member  of  the  band,  in- 
cluding the  two  white  men,  were  as  wet  as  though 
they  had  plunged  over-head  in  the  stream.  Only 
there  was  this  difference:  river-water  could  have 
been  warmed  gradually  by  the  contact  of  woolen 
clothes  with  the  body,  but  the  chill  of  rain-water 
was  constantly  renewed. 

Nor  was  there  much  comfort  in  the  prospect 
when,  weary  and  cold,  they  finally  drew  their  canoes 
ashore  for  the  evening's  camp.  The  forest  was 
dripping,  the  ground  soggy,  each  separate  twig 
and  branch  cold  and  slippery  to  the  hand.  The 
accumulated  water  of  a  day  showered  down  at  the 
slightest  movement.  A  damp  wind  seemed  to  rise 
from  the  earth  itself. 

Half  measures  or  timid  shrinkings  would  not  do. 
Every  one  had  to  plunge  boldly  into  the  woods,  had 
to  seize  and  drag  forth,  at  whatever  cost  of  shower- 
bath  the  wilderness  might  levy,  all  the  dead  wood  he 
could  find.  Then  the  value  of  the  birch-bark  envel- 


60  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

ope  about  the  powdery  touch-wood  became  evident. 
The  fire,  at  first  small  and  steamy,  grew  each  instant. 
Soon  a  dozen  little  blazes  sprang  up,  only  to  be  ex- 
tinguished as  soon  as  they  had  partially  dried  the 
site  of  wigwams.  Hot  tea  was  swallowed  grate- 
fully, duffel  hung  before  the  flames.  Nobody 
dried  completely,  but  everybody  steamed,  and  even 
in  the  pouring  rain  this  little  warmth  was  comfort 
by  force  of  contrast.  The  sleeping  blankets  were 
damp,  the  clothes  were  damp,  the  ground  was  damp, 
the  air  was  damp;  but,  after  all,  discomfort  is  a 
little  thing  and  a  temporary,  and  can  be  borne.  In 
the  retrospect  it  is  nothing  at  all.  Such  is  the  Ind- 
ian's philosophy,  and  that  is  why  in  a  rain  he  gen- 
erally travels  instead  of  lying  in  camp. 

The  storm  lasted  four  days.  Then  the  wind 
shifted  to  the  north,  bringing  clearing  skies. 

Up  to  now  the  river  had  been  swift  in  places,  but 
always  by  dint  of  tracking  or  poling  the  canoes 
had  been  forced  against  the  quick  water.  Early 
one  forenoon,  however,  Haukemah  lifted  carefully 
the  bow  of  his  canoe  and  slid  it  up  the  bank. 


CHAPTER    SEVEN 

The  portage  struck  promptly  to  the  right  through 
a  tall,  leafy  woods,  swam  neck-high  in  the  foliage 
of  small  growth,  mounted  a  steep  hill,  and  mean- 
dered over  a  bowlder-strewn,  moss-grown  plateau, 
to  dip  again,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away,  to  the  banks 
of  the  river.  But  you  must  not  imagine  one  of 
your  easy  portages  of  Maine  or  lower  Canada. 
This  trail  was  faint  and  dim, — here  an  excoriation 
on  the  surface  of  a  fallen  and  half-rotted  tree,  there 
a  withered  limb  hanging,  again  a  mere  sense  in  the 
forest's  growth  that  others  had  passed  that  way. 
Only  an  expert  could  have  followed  it. 

The  canoe  loads  were  dumped  out  on  the  beach. 
One  after  another,  even  to  the  little  children,  the 
people  shouldered  their  packs.  The  long  sash  was 
knotted  into  a  loop,  which  was  passed  around  the 
pack  and  the  bearer's  forehead.  Some  of  the 
stronger  men  carried  thus  upward  of  two  hundred 
pounds. 

61 


62  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

Unlike  a  party  of  white  men,  the  Indians  put  no 
system  into  their  work.  They  rested  when  they 
pleased,  chatted,  shouted,  squatted  on  their  heels 
conversing.  Yet  somehow  the  task  was  accom- 
plished, and  quickly.  To  one  on  an  elevation  dom- 
inating the  scene  it  would  have  been  most  pict- 
uresque. Especially  noticeable  were  those  who 
for  the  moment  stood  idle,  generally  on  heights, 
where  their  muscle-loose  attitudes  and  fluttering 
draperies  added  a  strangely  decorative  note  to  the 
landscape;  while  below  plodded,  bending  forward 
under  their  enormous  loads,  an  unending  procession 
of  patient  toilers.  In  five  minutes  the  portage  was 
alive  from  one  end  to  the  other. 

To  Dick  and  Sam  Bolton  the  traverse  was  a  sim- 
ple matter.  Sam,  by  the  aid  of  his  voyager's  sash, 
easily  carried  the  supplies  and  blankets ;  Dick  fast- 
ened the  two  paddles  across  the  thwarts  to  form  a 
neck-yoke,  and  swung  off  with  the  canoe.  Then 
they  returned  to  the  plateau  until  their  savage 
friends  should  have  finished  the  crossing. 

Ordinarily  white  men  of  this  class  are  welcome 
enough  to  travel  with  the  Indian  tribes.  Their 
presence  is  hardly  considered  extraordinary  enough 


CHAPTER    SEVEN  63 

for  comment.  Sam  Bolton,  however,  knew  that  in 
the  present  instance  he  and  Dick  aroused  an  unusual 
interest  of  some  sort. 

He  was  not  able  to  place  it  to  his  own  satisfac- 
tion. It  might  be  because  of  Bolton's  reputation 
as  a  woodsman ;  it  might  be  because  of  Dick  Her- 
ron's  spectacular  service  to  Haukemah  in  the  in- 
stance of  the  bear;  it  might  be  that  careful  talk 
had  not  had  its  due  effect  in  convincing  the  Indians 
that  the  journey  looked  merely  to  the  establishment 
of  new  winter  posts;  Sam  was  not  disinclined  to 
attribute  it  to  pernicious  activity  on  the  part  of  the 
Ojibway.  It  might  spring  from  any  one  of  these. 
Nor  could  he  quite  decide  its  quality; — whether 
friendly  or  inimical.  Merely  persisted  the  fact 
that  he  and  his  companion  were  watched  curi- 
ously by  the  men  and  fearfully  by  the  women; 
that  they  brought  a  certain  constraint  to  the  camp 
fire. 

Finally  an  incident,  though  it  did  not  decide 
these  points,  brought  their  ambiguity  nearer  to  the 
surface. 

One  evening  old  Haukemah  received  from  the 
women  the  bear's  robe  fully  tanned.  Its  inner  sur- 


64  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

face  had  been  whitened  and  then  painted  rudely 
with  a  symbolical  representation  of  the  hunt. 
Haukemah  spoke  as  follows,  holding  the  robe  in 
his  hand : 

"This  is  the  robe  of  makwa,  our  little  brother. 
His  flesh  we  all  ate  of.  But  you  who  killed  him 
should  have  his  coat.  Therefore  my  women  have 
painted  it  because  you  saved  their  head  man." 

He  laid  the  robe  at  Dick's  feet.  Dick  glanced 
toward  his  companion  with  the  strange  cast  flicker- 
ing quizzically  in  his  narrow  eyes.  "Fine  thing  to 
carry  along  on  a  trip  like  ours,"  he  said  in  Eng- 
lish. "/  don't  know  what  to  do  with  it.  They've 
worked  on  it  mighty  near  a  week.  I  wish  to  hell 
they'd  keep  their  old  robe."  However,  he  stopped 
and  touched  it  in  sign  of  acceptance.  "I  thank  my 
brother,"  he  said  in  Cree. 

"You'll  have  to  bring  it  along,"  Sam  answered 
in  English.  "We'll  have  to  carry  it  while  we're 
with  them,  anyway." 

The  Indian  men  were  squatted  on  their  heels 
about  the  fire,  waiting  gravely  and  courteously  for 
this  conference,  in  an  unknown  tongue,  to  come  to 
»n  end.  The  women,  naturally  interested  in  the  dis- 


CHAPTER  SEVEN  65 

posal  of  their  handiwork,  had  drawn  just  within 
the  circle  of  light. 

Suddenly  Dick,  inspired,  darted  to  this  group  of 
women,  whence  he  returned  presently  half  drag- 
ging, half-coaxing  a  young  girl.  She  came  reluc- 
tantly, hanging  back  a  little,  dropping  her  head, 
or  with  an  embarrassed  giggle  glancing  shyly  over 
her  shoulder  at  her  companions.  When  near  the 
centre  of  the  men's  group,  Dick  dropped  her  hand. 

Promptly  she  made  as  though  to  escape,  but 
stopped  at  a  word  from  Haukemah.  It  was  May- 
may-gwan,  the  Ojibway  girl. 

Obediently  she  paused.  Her  eyes  were  dancing 
with  the  excitement  of  the  adventure,  an  almost 
roguish  smile  curved  her  mouth  and  dimpled  her 
cheek,  her  lower  lip  was  tightly  clasped  between  her 
teeth  as  she  stood  contemplating  her  heavily  beaded 
little  moccasin,  awaiting  the  explanation  of  this,  to 
her,  extraordinary  performance. 

"What  is  your  name,  little  sister?"  asked  Dick 
in  Cree. 

She  dropped  her  head  lower,  but  glanced  from 
the  corner  of  her  eye  at  the  questioner. 

"Answer!"  commanded  Haukemah. 


66  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

"May-may-gw£n,"  she  replied  in  a  low  voice. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Dick,  in  English.  "You're  an 
Oj  ibway ,"  he  went  on  in  Cree. 

"Yes." 

"That  explains  why  you're  such  a  tearing  little 
beauty,"  muttered  the  young  man,  again  in  Eng 
lish. 

"The  old-men,"  he  resumed,  in  Cree,  "have  given 
me  this  robe.  Because  I  hold  it  very  dear  I  wish  to 
give  it  to  that  people  whom  I  hold  dearest.  That 
people  is  the  Crees  of  Rupert's  House.  And  be- 
cause you  are  the  fairest,  I  give  you  this  robe  so 
that  there  may  be  peace  between  your  people  and 
me." 

Ill-expressed  as  this  little  speech  was,  from  the 
flowery  standpoint  of  Indian  etiquette,  nevertheless 
its  subtlety  gained  applause.  The  Indians  grunted 
deep  ejaculations  of  pleasure.  "Good  boy!"  mut- 
tered Sam  Bolton,  pleased. 

Dick  lifted  the  robe  and  touched  it  to  the  girl's 
hand.  She  gasped  in  surprise,  then  slowly  raised 
her  eyes  to  his. 

"Damn  if  you  ain't  pretty  enough  to  kiss !"  cried 
Dick. 


CHAPTER    SEVEN  67 

He  stepped  across  the  robe,  which  had  fallen  be- 
tween them,  circled  the  girl's  upturned  face  with 
the  flat  of  his  hands,  and  kissed  her  full  on  the 
lips. 

The  kiss  of  ceremony  is  not  unknown  to  the 
northern  Indians,  and  even  the  kiss  of  affection 
sometimes  to  be  observed  among  the  more  demon- 
strative, but  such  a  caress  as  Dick  bestowed  on  May- 
may-gwan  filled  them  with  astonishment.  The  girl 
herself,  though  she  cried  out,  and  ran  to  hide 
among  those  of  her  own  sex,  was  not  displeased ;  she 
rather  liked  it,  and  could  not  mis-read  the  admira- 
tion that  had  prompted  it.  Nor  did  the  other  Ind- 
ians really  object.  It  was  a  strange  thing  to  do, 
but  perhaps  it  was  a  white  man's  custom.  The 
affair  might  have  blown  away  like  a  puff  of  gun- 
powder. 

But  at  the  moment  of  Dick's  salute,  Sam  Bolton 
cried  out  sharply  behind  him.  The  young  woods- 
man instantly  whirled  to  confront  the  Chippewa. 

"He  reached  for  his  knife,"  explained  Sam. 

The  ejaculation  had  also  called  the  attention  of 
every  member  of  the  band  to  the  tableau.  There 
could  be  absolutely  no  doubt  as  to  its  meaning, — 


68  THE    SILENT   PLACES 

fche  evident  anger  of  the  red,  his  attitude,  his  hand 

on  the  haft  of  his  knife.    The  Chippewa  was  fairly 

caught. 

He  realised  the  fact,  but  his  quick  mind  instantly 
turned  the  situation  to  his  profit.  Without  at- 
tempting to  alter  the  malice  of  his  expression,  he 
nevertheless  dropped  his  hand  from  his  knife-hilt, 
and  straightened  his  figure  to  the  grandiose  atti- 
tude of  the  Indian  orator. 

"This  man  speaks  crooked  words.  I  know  the 
language  of  the  saganash.  He  tells  my  brothers 
that  he  gives  this  robe  to  May-may-gwdn  because 
he  holds  it  the  dearest  of  his  possessions,  and  be- 
cause his  heart  is  good  towards  my  brother's  peo- 
ple. But  to  the  other  saganash  he  said  these  words : 
'It  is  a  little  thing,  and  I  do  not  wish  to  carry  it. 
What  shall  I  do  with  it?'  " 

He  folded  his  arms  theatrically.  Dick  Herron, 
his  narrow  eyes  blazing,  struck  him  full  on  the 
mouth  a  shoulder  blow  that  sent  him  sprawling  into 
the  ashes  by  the  fire. 

The  Chippewa  was  immediately  on  his  feet,  his 
knife  in  his  hand.  Instinctively  the  younger  Crees 
drew  near  to  him.  The  old  race  antagonism  flashed 


CHAPTER  SEVEN  69 

forth,  naturally,  without  the  intervention  of  rea- 
son. A  murmur  went  up  from  the  other  by- 
standers. 

Sam  Bolton  arose  quietly  to  take  his  place  at 
Dick's  elbow.  As  yet  there  was  no  danger  of  vio- 
lence, except  from  the  outraged  Chippewa.  The 
Crees  were  startled,  but  they  had  not  yet  taken 
sides.  All  depended  on  an  intrepid  front.  For  a 
moment  they  stared  at  one  another,  the  Indians  un- 
certain, the  Anglo-Saxons,  as  always,  fiercely  dom- 
inant in  spirit,  no  matter  what  the  odds  against 
them,  as  long  as  they  are  opposed  to  what  they  con- 
sider the  inferior  race. 

Then  a  flying  figure  glided  to  the  two.  May- 
may-gwan,  palpitating  with  fear,  thrust  their 
rifles  into  the  white  men's  hands,  then  took  her  stand 
behind  them. 

But  Haukemah  interfered  with  all  the  weight  of 
his  authority. 

"Stop!"  he  commanded,  sharply.  "There  is  no 
need  that  friends  should  bear  weapons.  What  are 
you  doing,  my  young  men?  Do  you  judge  these 
saganash  without  hearing  what  they  have  to  say? 
Ask  of  them  if  what  the  Chippewa  says  is  true." 


70  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

"The  robe  is  fine.  I  gave  it  for  the  reason  I 
said,"  replied  Dick. 

The  Cree  young  men,  shaken  from  their  instinc- 
tive opposition,  sank  back.  It  was  none  of  their 
affair,  after  all,  but  a  question  of  veracity  between 
Dick  and  his  enemy.  And  the  Chippewa  enjoyed 
none  too  good  a  reputation.  The  swift  crisis  had 
passed. 

Dick  laughed  his  boyish,  reckless  laugh. 

"Damn  if  I  didn't  pick  out  the  old  idiot's  best 
girl!"  he  cried  to  his  companion;  but  tj 
doubtfully  shook  his  head, 


CHAPTER   EIGHT 

When  next  day  the  band  resumed  the  journey,  it 
became  evident  that  May-may-gwan  was  to  be  pun- 
ished for  her  demonstration  of  the  night  before. 
Her  place  in  the  bow  of  old  Moose  Cow's  canoe  was 
taken  by  a  little  girl,  and  she  was  left  to  follow  as 
best  she  might  on  foot. 

The  travel  ashore  was  exceedingly  difficult.  A 
dense  forest  growth  of  cedar  and  tamarack  pushed 
to  the  very  edge  of  the  water,  and  the  rare  open 
beaches  were  composed  of  smooth  rocks  too  small 
to  afford  secure  footing,  and  too  large  to  be  trod- 
den under.  The  girl  either  slipped  and  stumbled 
on  insecure  and  ankle-twisting  shale,  or  forced  a 
way  through  the  awful  tangle  of  a  swamp.  As  the 
canoeing  at  this  point  was  not  at  all  difficult,  her 
utmost  efforts  could  not  keep  her  abreast  of  the 
travellers. 

Truth  to  tell  May-may-gwa'n  herself  did  not  ap- 
pear to  consider  that  she  was  hardly  used.  Indeed 

71 


7Z  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

she  let  her  hair  down  about  her  face,  tool  off  the 
brilliant  bits  of  color  that  had  adorned  hsr  gar- 
ments, and  assumed  the  regulation  downcast  atti- 
tude of  a  penitent.  But  Dick  Herron  was  indig- 
nant. 

"Look  here,  Sam,"  said  he,  "this  thing  ain't 
right  at  all.  She  got  into  all  this  trouble  on  our 
account,  and  we're  riding  canoe  here  slick  as  car- 
cajou in  a  pork  cache  while  she  pegs  along  afoot. 
Let's  take  her  aboard." 

"Won't  do,'*  replied  Sam,  briefly,  "can't  inter- 
fere. Let  those  Injuns  run  themselves.  They're 
more  or  less  down  on  us  as  it  is." 

"Oh,  you're  too  slow!"  objected  Dick.  "What 
the  hell  do  we  care  for  a  lot  of  copper-skins  from 
Rupert's  House!  We  ain't  got  anything  to  ask 
from  them  but  a  few  pairs  of  moccasins,  and  if  they 
don't  want  to  make  them  for  us,  they  can  use  their 
buckskin  to  tie  up  their  sore  heads !" 

He  thrust  his  paddle  in  close  to  the  bow  and 
twisted  the  canoe  towards  shore. 

"Come  on,  Sam,"  said  he,  "show  your  spunk !" 

The  older  man  said  nothing.  His  steady  blue 
eyes  rested  on  his  companion's  back  not  un- 


CHAPTER  EIGHT  73 

kindly,  although  a  frown  knit  the  brows  above 
them. 

"Come  here,  little  sister,"  cried  Dick  to  the  girl. 

She  picked  her  way  painfully  through  the  scrub 
to  the  edge  of  the  bank. 

:'Get  into  the  canoe,"  commanded  Dick. 

She  drew  back  in  deprecation. 

"Ka'-ka'win !"  she  objected,  in  very  real  terror. 
"The  old-men  have  commanded  that  I  take  the 
Long  Way,  and  who  am  I  that  I  should  not  obey? 
It  cannot  be." 

"Get  in  here,"  ordered  Dick,  obstinately. 

"My  brother  is  good  to  me,  but  I  cannot,  for  the 
head  men  have  ordered.  It  would  go  very  hard 
with  me,  if  I  should  disobey." 

"Oh,  hell!"  exploded  petulant  Dick  in  English, 
slamming  his  paddle  down  against  the  thwarts. 

He  leaped  ashore,  picked  the  girl  up  bodily, 
threw  her  almost  with  violence  into  the  canoe,  thrust 
the  light  -rout  into  the  stream,  and  resumed  his 
efforts,  scowling  savagely. 

The  girl  dropped  her  face  in  her  hands.  When 
the  white  men's  craft  overtook  the  main  band,  she 
'Crouched  still  lower,  shuddering  under  the  grins 


74  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

scrutiny  of  her  people.  Dick's  lofty  scorn  looked 
neither  to  right  nor  left,  but  paddled  fiercely 
ahead  until  the  Indians  were  well  astern  and  hidden 
by  the  twists  of  the  river.  Sam  Bolton  proceeded 
serenely  on  in  his  accustomed  way. 

Only,  when  the  tribesmen  had  been  left  behind, 
he  leaned  forward  and  began  to  talk  to  the  girl  in 
low-voiced  Ojibway,  comforting  her  with  many  as- 
surances, as  one  would  comfort  a  child.  After  a 
time  she  ceased  trembling  and  looked  up.  But  her 
glance  made  no  account  of  the  steady,  old  man  who 
had  so  gently  led  her  from  her  slough  of  despond, 
but  rested  on  the  straight,  indignant  back  of  the 
glorious  youth  who  had  cast  her  into  it.  And  Sam 
Bolton,  knowing  the  ways  of  a  maid,  merely  sighed 
and  resumed  his  methodical  paddling. 

At  the  noon  stop  and  on  portage  it  was  impossi 
ble  to  gauge  the  feeling  of  the  savages  in  regard  to 
the  matter,  but  at  night  the  sentiment  was  strongly 
enough  marked.  May-may-gwan  herself,  much  to 
her  surprise,  was  no  further  censured,  and  was  per- 
mitted to  escape  with  merely  the  slights  and  sneers 
the  women  were  able  to  inflict  on  her.  Perhaps  her 
masters,  possessed  of  an  accurate  sense  of  justice, 


CHAPTER    EIGHT  75 

realised  that  the  latter  affair  had  not  been  her  fault. 
Or,  what  is  more  likely,  their  race  antagonism,  al- 
ways ready  in  these  fierce  men  of  the  Silent  Places, 
seized  instinctively  on  this  excuse  to  burst  into  a  defi- 
nite unfriendliness.  The  younger  men  drew  frank- 
ly apart.  The  older  made  it  a  point  to  sit  by  the 
white  men's  fire,  but  they  conversed  formally  and 
with  many  pauses.  Day  by  day  the  feeling  intensi- 
fied. A  strong  wind  had  followed  from  the  north 
for  nearly  a  week,  and  so,  of  course,  they  had  seen 
no  big  game,  for  the  wary  animals  scented  them 
long  before  they  came  in  sight.  Meat  began  to  run 
low.  So  large  a  community  could  not  subsist  on 
the  nightly  spoils  of  the  net  and  traps.  The  con- 
tinued ill-luck  was  attributed  to  the  visitors.  Final- 
ly camp  was  made  for  a  day  while  Crooked  Nose, 
the  best  trailer  and  hunter  of  them  all,  went  out  to 
get  a  caribou.  Dick,  hoping  thus  to  win  a  little 
good  will,  lent  his  Winchester  for  the  occasion. 

The  Indian  walked  very  carefully  through  the 
mossy  woods  until  he  came  upon  a  caribou  trail  still 
comparatively  fresh.  Nobody  but  Crooked  Nose 
could  have  followed  the  faint  indications,  but  he 
did  so,  at  first  rapidly,  then  more  warily,  finally  at 


76  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

a  very  snail's  pace.  His  progress  was  noiseless. 
Such  a  difficult  result  was  accomplished  primarily 
by  his  quickness  of  eye  in  selecting  the  spots  on 
which  to  place  his  feet,  and  also  to  a  great  extent 
by  the  fact  that  he  held  his  muscles  so  pliantly  tense 
that  the  weight  of  his  body  came  down  not  all  at 
once,  but  in  increasing  pressure  until  the  whole  was 
supported  ready  for  the  next  step.  He  -flowed 
through  the  woods. 

When  the  trail  became  fresh  he  often  paused  to 
scrutinise  closely,  to  smell,  even  to  taste  the  herb- 
age broken  by  the  animal's  hoofs.  Once  he  startled 
a  jay,  but  froze  into  immobility  before  that  watch- 
man of  the  woods  had  sprung  his  alarm.  For  full 
ten  minutes  the  savage  poised  motionless.  Then  the 
bird  flitted  away,  and  he  resumed  his  careful  stalk. 

It  was  already  nearly  noon.  The  caribou  had 
been  feeding  slowly  forward.  Now  he  would  lie 
down.  And  Crooked  Nose  knew  very  well  that  the 
animal  would  make  a  little  detour  to  right  or  left 
so  as  to  be  able  to  watch  his  back  track. 

Crooked  Nose  redoubled  his  scrutiny  of  the 
broken  herbage.  Soon  he  left  the  trail,  moving 
like  a  spirit,  noiselessly,  steadily,  but  so  slowly  that 


CHAPTER  EIGHT  71 

it  would  have  required  a  somewhat  extended  obser- 
vation to  convince  you  that  he  moved  at  all.  His 
bead-like  black  eyes  roved  here  and  there.  He  did 
not  look  for  a  caribou — no  such  fool  he — but  for 
a  splotch  of  brown,  a  deepening  of  shadow,  a  con- 
tour of  surface  which  long  experience  had  taught 
him  could  not  be  dre  to  the  forest's  ordinary  play 
of  light  and  shade.  After  a  moment  his  gaze  cen- 
tred. In  the  lucent,  cool,  green  shadow  of  a  thick 
clump  of  moose  maples  he  felt  rather  than  discerned 
a  certain  warmth  of  tone.  You  and  I  would  prob- 
ably have  missed  the  entire  shadow.  But  Crooked 
Nose  knew  that  the  warmth  of  tone  meant  the 
brown  of  his  quarry's  summer  coat.  He  cocked  his 
rifle. 

But  a  caribou  is  a  large  animal,  and  only  a  few 
spots  are  fatal.  Crooked  Nose  knew  better  than  to 
shoot  at  random.  He  whistled. 

The  dark  colour  dissolved.  There  were  no 
abrupt  movements,  no  noises,  but  suddenly  the 
caribou  seemed  to  develop  from  the  green  shadow 
mist,  to  stand,  his  ears  pricked  forward,  his  lustrous 
eyes  wide,  his  nostrils  quivering  toward  the  un- 
known something  that  had  uttered  the  sound.  It 


78  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

was   like  magic.     An   animal  was   now   where,   a 

moment  before,  none  had  been. 

Crooked  Nose  raised  the  rifle,  sighted  steadily  at 
the  shoulder,  low  down,  and  pulled  the  trigger.  A 
sharp  click  alone  answered  his  intention.  Accus- 
tomed only  to  the  old  trade-gun,  he  had  neglected 
to  throw  down  and  back  the  lever  which  should  lift 
the  cartridge  from  the  magazine. 

Instantly  the  caribou  snorted  aloud  and  crashed 
noisily  away.  A  dozen  lurking  Canada  jays 
jumped  to  the  tops  of  spruces  and  began  to  scream. 
Red  squirrels,  in  all  directions,  alternately  whirred 
their  rattles  and  chattered  in  an  ecstasy  of  rage. 
The  forest  was  alarmed. 

Crooked  Nose  glanced  at  the  westering  sun,  and 
$et  out  swiftly  in  a  direct  line  for  the  camp  of  his 
companions.  Arrived  there  he  marched  theatrically 
to  the  white  men,  cast  the  borrowed  rifle  at  their 
feet,  and  returned  to  the  side  of  the  fire,  where  he 
squatted  impassively  on  his  heels.  The  hunt  had 
failed. 

All  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  the  men  talked  sul- 
lenly together.  There  could  be  no  doubt  that 
trouble  was  afoot.  Toward  night  some  of  the 


CHAPTER  EIGHT  79 

younger  members  grew  so  bold  as  to  cast  fierce 
looks  in  the  direction  of  the  white  visitors. 

Finally  late  in  the  evening  old  Haukemah  came 
to  them.  For  some  time  he  sat  silent  and  grave, 
smoking  his  pipe,  and  staring  solemnly  into  the 
coals. 

"Little  Father,"  said  he  at  last,  "you  and  I  are 
old  men.  Our  blood  is  cool.  We  do  not  act  quickly. 
But  other  men  are  young.  Their  blood  is  hot  and 
swift,  and  it  is  quick  to  bring  them  spirit- 
thoughts.*  They  say  you  have  made  the  wind, 
kee-way-din,  the  north  wind,  to  blow  so  that  we  can 
have  no  game.  They  say  you  conjured  Crooked 
Nose  so  that  he  brought  back  no  caribou,  although 
he  came  very  near  it.  They  say,  too,  that  you  seek 
a  red  man  to  do  him  a  harm,  and  their  hearts  are  evil 
toward  you  on  that  account.  They  say  you  have 
made  the  power  of  the  old-men  as  nothing,  for  what 
they  commanded  you  denied  when  you  brought  our 
little  sister  in  your  canoe.  I  know  nothing  of  these 
things,  except  the  last,  which  was  foolishness  in  the 
doing,"  the  old  man  glanced  sharply  at  Dick, 
puffed  on  his  nearly  extinguished  pipe  until  it  was 
*  Fancies. 


80  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

well  alight,  and  went  on.  "My  brothers  say  they 
are  looking  places  for  winter  posts ;  I  believe  them. 
They  say  their  hearts  are  kind  toward  my  people; 
I  believe  them.  Kee-way-din,  the  north  wind,  has 
many  times  before  blown  up  the  river,  and  Crooked 
Nose  is  a  fool.  My  heart  is  good  toward  you,  but 
it  is  not  the  heart  of  my  young  men.  They  mm> 
mur  and  threaten.  Here  our  trails  fork.  My 
brothers  must  go  now  their  own  way." 

"Good,"  replied  Sam,  after  a  moment.  "I  am 
g\&d  my  brother's  heart  is  good  toward  me,  and 
I  know  what  young  men  are.  We  will  go.  Tell 
your  young  men." 

An  expression  of  relief  overspread  Haukemah'a 
face.  Evidently  the  crisis  had  been  more  grave 
than  he  had  acknowledged.  He  thrust  his  hand 
inside  his  loose  capote  and  brought  forth  a  small 
bundle. 

"Moccasins,"  said  he. 

Sam  looked  them  over.  They  were  serviceable, 
strong  deerskin,  with  high  tops  of  white  linen  cloth 
procured  at  the  Factory,  without  decoration  save 
for  a  slender  line  of  silk  about  the  tongue.  Some- 
thing approaching  a  smile  flickered  over  old  Hau- 


CHAPTER  EIGHT  81 

kemah's  countenance  as  he  fished  out  of  his  side 
pocket  another  pair. 

"For  Eagle-eye,"  he  said,  handing  them  to 
Dick.  The  young  man  had  gained  the  sobriquet, 
not  because  of  any  remarkable  clarity  of  vision,  but 
from  the  peculiar  aquiline  effect  of  his  narrow 
gaze. 

The  body  of  the  moccasins  were  made  of  buck- 
skin as  soft  as  silk,  smoked  to  a  rich  umber.  The 
tops  were  of  fawnskin,  tanned  to  milky  white. 
Where  the  two  parts  joined,  the  edges  had  been  al- 
lowed to  fall  half  over  the  foot  in  an  exaggerated 
welt,  lined  brilliantly  with  scarlet  silk.  The  orna- 
mentation was  heavy  and  elaborate.  Such  mocca- 
sins often  consume,  in  the  fashioning,  the  idle 
hours  of  months.  The  Indian  girl  carries  them 
with  her  everywhere,  as  her  more  civilised  sister  car- 
ries an  embroidery  frame.  On  dress  occasions  in 
the  Far  North  a  man's  standing  with  his  women- 
kind  can  be  accurately  gauged  by  the  magnificence 
of  his  foot-gear. 

"The  gift  of  May-rnay-gwan,"  explained  Hau- 
kemah. 

"Well,  I'll  be  damned !"  said  Dick,  in  English. 


82  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

"Will  my  brother  be  paid  in  tea  or  in  tobacco  ?" 
inquired  Sam  Bolton. 

Haukemah  arose. 

"Let  these  remind  you  always  that  my  heart  is 
good,"  said  he.  "I  may  tell  my  young  men  that 
you  go?" 

"Yes.    We  are  grateful  for  these." 

"Old  fellow's  a  pretty  decent  sort,"  remarked 
Dick,  after  Haukemah  had  stalked  away. 

"There  couldn't  anything  have  happened  better 
for  us!"  cried  Sam.  "Here  I  was  wondering  how 
we  could  get  away.  It  wouldn't  do  to  travel  with 
them  much  longer,  and  it  wouldn't  do  to  quit  them 
without  a  good  reason.  I'm  mighty  relieved  to  get 
shut  of  them.  The  best  way  over  into  the  Kabin- 
akagam  is  by  way  of  a  little  creek  the  Injuns  call 
the  Mattawishguia,  and  that  ought  to  be  a  few 
hours  ahead  of  us  now."  He  might  have  added  that 
all  these  annoyances,  which  he  was  so  carefully  dis- 
counting, had  sprung  from  Dick's  thoughtlessness ; 
but  he  was  silent,  sure  of  the  young  man's  value 
when  the  field  of  his  usefulness  should  be  reached. 


CHAPTER    NINE 

Dick  Herron  and  Sam  Bolton  sat  on  the  trunk  of  a 
fallen  tree.  It  was  dim  morning.  Through  the 
haze  that  shrouded  the  river  figures  moved.  Occa- 
sionally a  sharp  sound  eddied  the  motionless  silence 
— a  paddle  dropped,  the  prow  of  a  canoe  splashed 
as  it  was  lifted  to  the  water,  the  tame  crow  uttered 
a  squawk.  Little  by  little  the  groups  dwindled. 
Invisible  canoes  were  setting  out,  beyond  the  limits 
of  vision.  Soon  there  remained  but  a  few  scattered, 
cowled  figures,  the  last  women  hastily  loading  their 
craft  that  they  might  not  be  left  behind.  Now 
these,  too,  thrust  through  the  gray  curtain  of  fog. 
The  white  men  were  alone. 

With  the  passing  of  the  multitude  once  again 
the  North  came  close.  Spying  on  the  deserted  camp 
an  hundred  smaller  woods  creatures  fearfully  ap- 
proached, bright-eyed,  alert,  ready  to  retreat,  but 
eager  to  investigate  for  scraps  of  food  that  might 
have  been  left.  Squirrels  poised  in  spruce-trees, 

83 


84  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

leaped  boldly  through  space,  or  hurried  across  lit- 
tle open  stretches  of  ground.  Meat-hawks,  their 
fluffy  plumage  smoothed  to  alertness,  swooped  here 
and  there.  Momentary  and  hasty  scurryings  in  the 
dead  leaves  attested  the  presence  of  other  animals, 
faint  chirpings  and  rustlings  the  presence  of  other 
birds,  following  these  their  most  courageous  fora- 
gers. In  a  day  the  Indian  camp  would  have  taken 
on  the  character  of  the  forest ;  in  a  month,  an  an* 
cient  ruin,  it  would  have  fitted  as  accurately  with 
its  surroundings  as  an  acorn  in  the  cup. 

Now  the  twisted  vapours  drained  from  among 
the  tree-trunks  into  the  river  bed,  where  it  lay,  not 
more  ihan  five  feet  deep,  accurately  marking  the 
course  >f  the  stream.  The  sun  struck  across  the 
tops  of  the  trees.  A  chickadee,  upside  down  in 
bright-eyed  contemplation,  uttered  two  flute-notes. 
Instantly  a  winter-wren,  as  though  at  a  signal,  went 
into  ecstatic  ravings.  The  North  was  up  and  about 
her  daily  business. 

Sam  Bolton  and  Dick  finally  got  under  way. 
After  an  hour  they  arrived  opposite  the  mouth  of 
a  tributary  stream.  This  Sam  announced  as  tha 
Mattawishguia.  Immediately  they  turned  to  it. 


CHAPTER    NINE  85 

The  Mattawishguia  would  be  variously  de- 
scribed ;  in  California  as  a  river,  in  New  England 
as  a  brook,  in  Superior  country  as  a  trout  stream. 
It  is  an  hundred  feet  wide,  full  of  rapids,  almost  all 
fast  water,  and,  except  in  a  few  still  pools,  from  a 
foot  to  two  feet  deep.  The  bottom  is  of  round 
stones. 

Travel  by  canoe  in  such  a  stream  is  a  farce.  The 
water  is  too  fast  to  pole  against  successfully  more 
than  half  the  time ;  the  banks  are  too  overgrown  for 
tracking  with  the  tow-line.  About  the  only  system 
is  to  get  there  in  the  best  way  possible.  Usually  this 
meant  that  Dick  waded  at  the  bow  and  Sam  at  the 
stern,  leaning  strongly  against  the  current.  Bowl- 
ders of  all  sorts  harassed  the  free  passage,  stones 
rolled  under  the  feet,  holes  of  striking  unexpected- 
ness lay  in  wait,  and  the  water  was  icy  cold.  Once 
in  a  while  they  were  able  to  paddle  a  few  hun- 
dred feet.  Then  both  usually  sat  astride  the  ends 
of  the  canoe,  their  legs  hanging  in  the  water  in  or- 
der that  the  drippings  might  not  fall  inside.  As 
this  was  the  early  summer,  they  occasionally  kicked 
against  trees  to  drive  enough  of  the  numbness  from 
their  legs  so  that  they  could  feel  the  bottom. 


86  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

It  was  hard  work  and  cold  work  and  wearing, 
for  it  demanded  its  exact  toll  for  each  mile,  and 
was  as  insistent  for  the  effort  at  weary  night  as  at 
fresh  morning. 

Dick,  in  the  vigour  of  his  young  strength,  seemed 
to  like  it.  The  leisure  of  travel  with  the  Indians 
had  barely  stretched  his  muscles.  Here  was  some- 
thing against  which  he  could  exert  his  utmost  force. 
He  rejoiced  in  it,  taking  great  lungfuls  of  air, 
bending  his  shoulders,  breaking  through  these  outer 
defences  of  the  North  with  wanton  exuberance, 
blind  to  everything,  deaf  to  everything,  oblivious 
of  all  other  mental  and  physical  sensations  except 
the  delight  of  applying  his  skill  and  strength  to  the 
subduing  of  the  stream. 

But  Sam,  patient,  uncomplaining,  enduring,  re- 
tained still  the  broader  outlook.  He,  too,  fought 
the  water  and  the  cold,  adequately  and  strongly, 
but  it  was  with  the  unconsciousness  of  long  habit. 
His  mind  recognised  the  Forest  as  well  as  the 
Stream.  The  great  physical  thrill  over  the  poise 
between  perfect  health  and  the  opposing  of  difficul- 
ties he  had  left  behind  him  with  his  youth ;  as  indeed 
he  had,  in  a  lesser  sense,  gained  with  his  age  an 


CHAPTER  NINE  37 

indifference  to  discomfort.  He  was  cognisant  of 
the  stillness  of  the  woods,  the  presence  of  the  birds 
and  beasts,  the  thousand  subtleties  that  make  up 
the  personality  of  the  great  forest. 

And  with  the  strange  sixth  sense  of  the  accus- 
tomed woodsman  Sam  felt,  as  they  travelled,  that 
something  was  wrong.  The  impression  did  not 
come  to  him  through  any  of  the  accustomed  chan- 
nels. In  fact,  it  hardly  reached  his  intellect  as  yet. 
Through  long  years  his  intuitions  had  adapted 
themselves  to  their  environment.  The  subtle  in- 
fluences the  forest  always  disengaged  found  in  the 
delicately  attuned  fibres  of  his  being  that  which  vi- 
brated in  unison  with  them.  Now  this  adjustment 
was  in  some  way  disturbed.  To  Sam  Bolton  the 
f orcst  was  different,  and  this  made  him  uneasy  with- 
out his  knowing  why.  From  time  to  time  he 
stopped  suddenly,  every  nerve  quivering,  his  nos- 
trils, wide,  like  some  wild  thing  alert  for  danger. 
And  always  the  other  five  senses,  on  which  his  mind 
depended,  denied  the  sixth.  Nothing  stirred  but 
the  creatures  of  the  wilderness. 

Yet  always  the  impression  persisted.  It  was  ea- 
sily put  to  flight,  and  yet  it  always  returned. 


88  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

Twice,  while  Dick  rested  in  the  comfort  of  tobacco, 
Sam  made  long  detours  back  through  the  woods, 
looking  for  something,  he  knew  not  what ;  uneasy, 
he  knew  not  why.  Always  he  found  the  forest 
empty.  Everything,  well  ordered,  was  in  its  accus- 
tomed place.  He  returned  to  the  canoe,  shaking  his 
head,  unable  to  rid  himself  of  the  sensation  of  some- 
thing foreign  to  the  established  order  of  things. 

At  noon  the  men  drew  ashore  on  a  little  point  of 
rock.  There  they  boiled  tea  over  a  small  fire,  and 
ate  the  last  of  their  pilot's  bread,  together  with  ba- 
con and  the  cold  meat  of  partridges.  By  now  the 
sun  was  high  and  the  air  warm.  Tepid  odours 
breathed  from  the  forest,  and  the  songs  of  familiar 
homely  birds.  Little  heated  breezes  puffed  against 
the  travellers'  cheeks.  In  the  sun's  rays  their  gar- 
ments steamed  and  their  muscles  limbered. 

Yet  even  here  Sam  Bolton  was  unable  to  share 
the  relaxation  of  mind  and  body  his  companion  so 
absolutely  enjoyed.  Twice  he  paused,  food  sus- 
pended, his  mouth  open,  to  listen  intently  for  a  mo- 
ment, then  to  finish  carrying  his  hand  to  his  mouth 
with  the  groping  of  vague  perplexity.  Once  he 
arose  to  another  of  his  purposeless  circles  through 


CHAPTER  NINE  89 

the  woods.  Dick  paid  no  attention  to  these  things. 
[  n  the  face  of  danger  his  faculties  would  be  as  keen- 
ly on  the  stretch  as  his  comrade's;  but  now,  the 
question  one  merely  of  difficult  travel,  the  responsi- 
bility delegated  to  another,  he  bothered  his  head 
not  at  all,  but  like  a  good  lieutenant  left  everything 
to  his  captain,  half  closed  his  eyes,  and  watched  the 
smoke  curl  from  his  brier  pipe. 

When  evening  fell  the  little  fish-net  was  stretched 
below  a  chute  of  water,  the  traps  set,  snares  laid. 
As  long  as  these  means  sufficed  for  a  food  supply, 
the  ammunition  would  be  saved.  Wet  clothes  were 
hung  at  a  respectful  distance  from  the  blaze. 

Sam  was  up  and  down  all  night,  uncomfortable, 
indefinitely  groping  for  the  influence  that  unsettled 
his  peace  of  mind.  The  ghost  shadows  in  the  pines ; 
the  pattering  of  mysterious  feet ;  the  cries,  loud  and 
distant,  or  faint  and  near;  the  whisperings,  whist- 
lings, sighings,  or  crashes;  all  the  thousand  ethe- 
real essences  of  day-time  noises  that  go  to  make  up 
the  Night  and  her  silences — these  he  knew.  What 
he  did  not  know,  could  not  understand,  was  within 
himself.  What  he  sought  was  that  thing  in  Nature 
which  should  correspond. 


90  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

The  next  day  at  noon  he  returned  to  Dick  after 
a  more  than  usually  long  excursion,  carrying  some 
object.  He  laid  it  before  his  companion.  The  ob- 
ject proved  to  be  a  flat  stone;  and  on  the  flat  stone 
was  the  wet  print  of  a  moccasin. 

"We're  followed,"  he  said,  briefly. 

Dick  seized  the  stone  and  examined  it  closely. 

"It's  too  blurred,"  he  said,  at  last ;  "I  can't  make 
it  out.  But  th'  man  who  made  that  track  wasn't 
far  off.  Couldn't  you  make  trail  of  him  ?  He  must 
have  been  between  you  an'  me  when  you  found  this 
rock." 

"No,"  Sam  demurred,  "he  wasn't.  This  mocca- 
sin was  pointed  down  stream.  He  heard  me,  and 
went  right  on  down  with  th'  current.  He's  stick- 
ing to  the  water  all  the  way  so  as  to  leave  no  trail." 

"No  use  trying  to  follow  an  Injun  who  knows 
you're  after  him,"  agreed  Dick. 

"It's  that  Chippewa,  of  course,"  proffered  Sam. 
"I  always  was  doubtful  of  him.  Now  he's  followin' 
us  to  see  what  we're  up  to.  Then,  he  ain't  any  too 
friendly  to  you,  Dick,  'count  of  that  scrap  and  th' 
girl.  But  I  don't  think  that's  what  he's  up  to — not 
yet,  at  least.  I  believe  he's  some  sort  of  friend  or 


CHAPTER  NINE  91 

kin  of  that  Jingoss,  an'  he  wants  to  make  sure  that 
we're  after  him." 

"Why  don't  he  just  ambush  us,  then,  an'  be  done 
with  it?"  asked  Dick. 

"Two  to  one,"  surmised  Bolton,  laconically. 
"He's  only  got  a  trade-gun — one  shot.  But  more 
likely  he  thinks  it  ain't  going  to  do  him  much  good 
to  lay  us  out.  More  men  would  be  sent.  If  th' 
Company's  really  after  Jingoss,  the  only  safe  thing 
for  him  is  a  warning.  But  his  friend  don't  want 
to  get  him  out  of  th'  country  on  a  false  alarm." 

"That's  so,"  said  Dick. 

They  talked  over  the  situation,  and  what  was  best 
to  be  done. 

"He  don't  know  yet  that  we've  discovered  him," 
submitted  Sam.  "My  scouting  around  looked  like 
huntin',  and  he  couldn't  a  seen  me  pick  up  that 
stone.  We  better  not  try  to  catch  him  till  we  can 
make  sure.  He's  got  to  camp  somewheres.  We'll 
wait  till  night.  Of  course  he'll  get  away  from  th' 
stream,  and  he'll  cover  his  trail.  Still,  they's  a 
moon.  I  don't  believe  anybody  could  do  it  but  you, 
Dick.  If  you  don't  make  her,  why  there  ain't 
nothing  lost.  We'll  just  have  to  camp  down  here 


93  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

an'  go  to  trapping  until  he  gets  sick  of  hanging 

around." 

So  it  was  agreed.  Dick,  under  stress  of  danger, 
was  now  a  changed  man.  What  he  lacked  in  expe- 
rience and  the  power  to  synthesise,  he  more  than 
made  up  in  the  perfection  of  his  senses  and  a  certain 
natural  instinct  of  the  woods.  He  was  a  better 
trailer  than  Sam,  his  eyesight  was  keener,  his  hear- 
ing more  acute,  his  sense  of  smell  finer,  his  every 
nerve  alive  and  tingling  in  vibrant  unison  with  the 
life  about  him.  Where  Sam  laboriously  arrived 
by  the  aid  of  his  forty  years'  knowledge,  the  young- 
er man  leaped  by  the  swift  indirection  of  an  Indian 
— or  a  woman.  Had  he  only  possessed,  as  did  Bol- 
ton,  a  keen  brain  as  well  as  keen  higher  instincts,  he 
would  have  been  marvellous. 

The  old  man  sat  near  the  camp-fire  after  dark 
that  night  sure  that  Herron  was  even  then  conduct- 
ing the  affair  better  than  he  could  have  done  him- 
self. He  had  confidence.  No  faintest  indication, — 
even  in  the  uncertainty  of  moonlight  through  the 
trees, — that  a  man  had  left  the  river  would  escape 
the  young  man's  minute  inspection.  And  in  the 
search  no  twig  would  snap  under  those  soft-moo- 


CHAPTER  NINE  93 

caslned  feet ;  no  betraying  motion  of  brush  or  brake 
warn  the  man  he  sought.  Dick's  woodcraft  of  that 
sort  was  absolute;  just  as  Sam  Bolton's  woodcraft 
also  was  absolute — of  its  sort.  It  might  be  long, 
but  the  result  was  certain, — unless  the  Indian  him- 
self suspected. 

Dick  had  taken  his  rifle. 

"You  know,"  Sam  reminded  him,  significantly, 
"we  don't  really  need  that  Injun." 

"I  know,"  Dick  had  replied,  grimly. 

Now  Sam  Bolton  sat  near  the  fire  waiting  for  the 
sound  of  a  shot.  From  time  to  time  he  spread  his 
gnarled,  carved-mahogany  hands  to  the  blaze.  Un- 
der his  narrow  hat  his  kindly  gray-blue  eyes,  wrin- 
kled at  the  corners  with  speculation  and  good  hu- 
mour, gazed  unblinking  into  the  light.  As  always 
he  smoked. 

Time  went  on.  The  moon  climbed,  then  descend- 
ed again.  Finally  it  shone  almost  horizontally 
through  the  tree-trunks,  growing  larger  and  larger 
until  its  field  was  crackled  across  with  a  frostwork 
of  twigs  and  leaves.  By  and  by  it  reached  the  edge 
of  a  hill-bank,  visible  through  an  opening,  and 
paused.  It  had  become  huge,  gigantic,  big  with 


94  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

mystery.  A  wolf  sat  directly  before  it,  silhouetted 
sharply.  Presently  he  raised  his  pointed  nose, 
howling  mournfully  across  the  waste. 

The  fire  died  down  to  coals.  Sam  piled  on  fresh 
wood.  It  hissed  spitefully,  smoked  voluminously, 
then  leaped  into  flame.  The  old  woodsman  sat  as 
though  carved  from  patience,  waiting  calmly  the 
issue. 

Then  through  the  shadows,  dancing  ever  more 
gigantic  as  they  became  more  distant,  Sam  Bolton 
caught  the  solidity  of  something  moving.  The  ob- 
ject was  as  yet  indefinite,  mysterious,  flashing  mo- 
mentarily into  view  and  into  eclipse  as  the  tree- 
trunks  intervened  or  the  shadows  flickered.  The 
woodsman  did  not  stir ;  only  his  eyes  narrowed  with 
attention.  Then  a  branch  snapped,  noisy,  care- 
lessly broken.  Sam's  expectancy  flagged.  Who- 
ever it  was  did  not  care  to  hide  his  approach. 

But  in  a  moment  the  watcher  could  make  out  that 
the  figures  were  two;  one  erect  and  dominant,  the 
other  stooping  in  surrender.  Sam  could  not  under- 
stand. A  prisoner  would  be  awkward.  But  he 
waited  without  a  motion,  without  apparent  interest^ 
in  the  indifferent  attitude  of  the  woods-runner. 


CHAPTER    NINE  95 

Now  the  two  neared  the  outer  circle  of  light; 

they  stepped  within  it;  they  stopped  at  the  fire's 

edge.   Sam  Bolton  looked  up  straight  into  the  face 

of  Dick's  prisoner. 

It  was  May-may-gwan,  the  Ojibway  girl. 


CHAPTER   TEN 

Dick  pulled  the  girl  roughly  to  the  fireside,  where 
he  dropped  her  arm,  leaving  her  downcast  and  sub- 
missive. He  was  angry  all  through  with  the  pow- 
erless rage  of  the  man  whose  attentions  a  woman 
has  taken  more  seriously  than  he  had  intended. 
Suddenly  he  was  involved  more  deeply  than  he  had 
meant. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  that?"  he  cried. 

"What  you  doing  here?"  asked  Sam  in  Ojib- 
way,  although  he  knew  what  the  answer  would  be. 

She  did  not  reply,  however. 

"Hell!"  burst  out  Dick. 

"Well,  keep  your  hair  on,"  advised  Sam  Bolton, 
with  a  grin.  "You  shouldn't  be  so  attractive, 
Dicky." 

The  latter  growled. 

"Now  you've  got  her,  what  you  going  to  do  with 
her?"  pursued  the  older  man. 

96 


CHAPTER    TEN  97 

"Do  with  her?"  exploded  Dick;  "what  in  hell  do 
you  mean?  I  don't  want  her;  she's  none  of  my 
funeral.  She's  got  to  go  back,  of  course." 

"Oh,  sure!"  agreed  Sam.  "She's  got  to  go  back. 
Sure  thing !  It's  only  two  days  down  stream,  and 
then  the  Crees  would  have  only  four  days'  start  and 
getting  farther  every  minute.  A  mere  ten  days  in 
the  woods  without  an  outfit.  Too  easy ;  especially 
for  a  woman.  But  of  course  you'll  give  her  your 
outfit,  Dick." 

He  mused,  gazing  into  the  flames,  his  eyes  droll 
over  this  new  complication  introduced  by  his 
thoughtless  comrade. 

"Well,  we  can't  have  her  with  us,"  objected 
Dick,  obstinately.  "She'd  hinder  us,  and  bother  us, 
and  get  in  our  way,  and  we'd  have  to  feed  her — 
we  may  have  to  starve  ourselves; — and  she's  no 
damn  use  to  us.  She  can't  go.  I  won't  have  it ;  I 
didn't  bargain  to  lug  a  lot  of  squaws  around  on 
this  trip.  She  came ;  I  didn't  ask  her  to.  Let  her 
get  out  of  it  the  best  way  she  can.  She's  an  Injun. 
She  can  make  it  all  right  through  the  woods.  And 
if  she  has  a  hard  time,  she  ought  to." 

"Nice  mess,  isn't  it,  Dick?"  grinned  the  other. 


98  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

"No  mess  about  it.  I  haven't  anything  to  do 
with  such  a  fool  trick.  What  did  she  expect  to  gain 
tagging  us  through  the  woods  that  way  half  a  mile 
to  the  rear?  She  was  just  waiting  'till  we  got  so 
far  away  from  th'  Crees  that  we  couldn't  send  her 
back.  I'll  fool  her  on  that,  damn  her !"  He  kicked 
a  log  back  into  place,  sending  the  sparks  eddying. 

"I  wonder  if  she's  had  anything  to  eat  lately?" 
said  Bolton. 

"I  don't  care  a  damn  whether  she  has  or  not," 
said  Dick. 

"Keep  your  hair  on,  my  son,"  advised  Sam  again. 
"You're  hot  because  you  thought  you'd  got  shut  of 
th'  whole  affair,  and  now  you  find  you  haven't." 

"You  make  me  sick,"  commented  Dick. 

"Mebbe,"  admitted  the  woodsman.  He  fell  si- 
lent, staring  straight  before  him,  emitting  short 
puffs  from  his  pipe.  The  girl  stood  where  she  had 
been  thrust. 

"I'll  start  her  back  in  the  morning,"  proffered 
Dick  after  a  few  moments.  Then,  as  this  elicited 
no  remark,  "We  can  stock  her  up  with  jerky,  and 
there's  no  reason  she  shouldn't  make  it."  Sam  re- 
mained grimly  silent.  "Is  there?"  insisted  Dick. 


CHAPTER  TEN  99 

He  waited  a  minute  for  a  reply.  Then,  as  none 
came,  "Hell!"  he  exclaimed,  disgustedly,  and 
turned  away  to  sit  on  a  log  the  other  side  of  the  fire 
with  all  the  petulance  of  a  child. 

"Now  look  here,  Sam,"  he  broke  out,  after  an  in- 
terval. "We  might  as  well  get  at  this  thing 
straight.  We  can't  keep  her  with  us,  now,  can  we?" 

Sam  removed  his  pipe,  blew  a  cloud  straight  be- 
fore him,  and  replaced  it. 

Dick  reddened  slowly,  got  up  with  an  incidental 
remark  about  damn  fools,  and  began  to  spread  his 
blankets  beneath  the  lean-to  shelter.  He  muttered 
to  himself,  angered  at  the  dead  opposition  of  cir- 
cumstance which  he  could  not  push  aside.  Sud- 
denly he  seized  the  girl  again  by  the  arm. 

"Why  you  come?"  he  demanded  in  Ojibway. 
"Where  you  get  your  blankets?  Where  you  get 
your  grub  ?  How  you  make  the  Long  Trail  ?  What 
you  do  when  we  go  far  and  fast  ?  What  we  do  with 
you  now  ?"  Then  meeting  nothing  but  the  stolidity 
with  which  the  Indian  always  conceals  pain,  he 
flung  her  aside.  "Stupid  owl!"  he  growled. 

He  sat  on  the  ground  and  began  to  take  off  his 
moccasins  with  ostentatious  deliberation,  abruptly 


100  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

indifferent  to  it  all.  Slowly  he  prepared  for  the 
night,  yawning  often,  looking  at  the  sky.  arrang- 
ing the  fire,  emphasising  and  delaying  each  of  his 
movements  as  though  to  prove  to  himself  that  he 
acknowledged  only  the  habitual.  At  last  he  turned 
in,  his  shoulder  thrust  aggressively  toward  the  two 
motionless  figures  by  the  fire. 

It  was  by  now  close  to  midnight.  The  big  moon 
had  long  since  slipped  from  behind  the  solitary  wolf 
on  the  hill.  Yet  Sam  Bolton  made  no  move  toward 
his  blankets,  and  the  girl  did  not  stir  from  the 
downcast  attitude  into  which  she  had  first  fallen. 
The  old  woodsman  looked  at  the  situation  with 
steady  eyes.  He  realised  to  the  full  what  Dick 
Herron's  thoughtlessness  had  brought  on  them. 
A  woman,  even  a  savage  woman  inured  to  the 
wilderness,  was  a  hindrance.  She  could  not  travel 
as  fast  nor  as  far;  she  could  not  bear  the  same 
burdens,  endure  the  same  hardship;  she  would 
consume  her  share  of  the  provisions.  And  be- 
fore this  expedition  into  the  Silent  Places  should 
be  finished  the  journeying  might  require  the 
speed  of  a  course  after  quarry,  the  packing  would 
come  finally  to  the  men's  back,  the  winter  would 


CHAPTER  TEN  101 

have  to  be  met  in  the  open,  and  the  North, 
lavish  during  these  summer  months,  sold  her  suste- 
nance dear  when  the  snows  fell.  The  time  might 
come  when  these  men  would  have  to  arm  for  the 
struggle.  Cruelty,  harshness,  relentlessness,  selfish- 
ness, singleness  of  purpose,  hardness  of  heart  they 
would  have  perforce  to  assume.  And  when  they 
stripped  for  such  a  struggle,  Sam  Bolton  knew 
that  among  other  things  this  woman  would  have  to 
go.  If  the  need  arose,  she  would  have  to  die;  for 
this  quest  was  greater  than  the  life  of  any  woman 
or  any  man.  Would  it  not  be  better  to  send  her 
back  through  certain  hardship  now,  rather  than 
carry  her  on  to  a  possible  death  in  the  White 
Silence.  For  the  North  as  yet  but  skirmished. 
Her  true  power  lay  behind  the  snows  and  the 
ice. 

The  girl  stood  in  the  same  attitude.  Sam  Bolton 
spoke  to  her. 

"May-may-gwan." 

"Little  Father." 

"Why  have  you  followed  us?" 

The  girl  did  not  reply. 

"Sister,"  said  the  woodsman,  kindly,  "I  am  an 


102  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

old  man.    You  have  called  me  Father.    Why  have 

you  followed  us?" 

"I  found  Jibiwanisi  good  in  my  sight,"  she  said, 
with  a  simple  dignity,  "and  he  looked  on  me." 

"It  was  a  foolish  thing  to  do." 

"Ae,"  replied  the  girl. 

"He  does  not  wish  to  take  you  in  his  wigwam." 

"Eagle-eye  is  angry  now.  Anger  melts  under 
the  sun." 

"I  do  not  think  his  will." 

"Then  I  will  make  his  fire  and  his  buckskin  and 
cook  his  food." 

"We  go  on  a  long  journey." 

"I  will  follow." 

"No,"  replied  the  woodsman,  abruptly,  "we  will 
send  you  back." 

The  girl  remained  silent. 

"Well?"  insisted  Bolton. 

"I  shall  not  go." 

A  little  puzzled  at  this  insistence,  delivered  in  so 
calm  a  manner,  Sam  hesitated  as  to  what  to  say. 
Suddenly  the  girl  stepped  forward  to  face  him. 

"Little  Father,"  she  said,  solemnly,  "I  cannot 
go.  Those  are  not  my  people.  I  do  not  know  my 


CHAPTER    TEN  103 

people.  My  heart  is  not  with  them.  My  heart  is 
here.  Little  Father,"  she  went  on,  dropping  her 
voice,  "it  is  here,  here,  here !"  she  clasped  her  breast 
with  both  hands.  "I  do  not  know  how  it  is.  There 
is  a  pain  in  my  breast,  and  my  heart  is  sad  with  the 
words  of  Eagle-eye.  And  yet  here  the  birds  sing 
and  the  sun  is  bright.  Away  from  here  it  is  dark. 
That  is  all  I  know.  I  do  not  understand  it,  Little 
Father.  My  heart  is  here.  I  cannot  go  away.  If 
you  drive  me  out,  I  shall  follow.  Kill  me,  if  you 
wish,  Little  Father ;  I  do  not  care  for  that.  I  shall 
not  hinder  you  on  the  Long  Trail.  I  shall  do  many 
things.  When  I  cannot  travel  fast  enough,  then 
leave  me.  My  heart  is  here;  I  cannot  go  away." 
She  stopped  abruptly,  her  eyes  glowing,  her  breath 
short  with  the  quivering  of  passion.  Then  all  at 
once  her  passivity  fell  on  her.  She  stood,  her  head 
downcast,  patient,  enduring,  bending  to  circum- 
stance meekly  as  an  Indian  woman  should. 

Sam  Bolton  made  no  reply  to  this  appeal.  He 
drew  his  sheath-knife,  cut  in  two  the  doubled  three- 
point  blanket,  gave  one  of  the  halves  to  the  girl,  and 
indicated  to  her  a  place  under  the  shelter.  In  the 
firelight  his  face  hardened  as  he  cast  his  mind  again 


104  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

over  the  future.  He  had  not  solved  the  problem, 
only  postponed  it.  In  the  great  struggle  women 
would  have  no  place. 

At  two  o'clock,  waking  in  the  manner  of  woods- 
men and  sailors  the  world  over,  he  arose  to  replenish 
the  fire.  He  found  it  already  bright  with  new  fuel, 
and  the  Indian  girl  awake.  She  lay  on  her  side,  the 
blanket  about  her  shoulders,  her  great  wistful  eyes 
wide  open.  A  flame  shot  into  the  air.  It  threw  a 
momentary  illumination  into  the  angles  of  the  shel- 
ter, discovering  Dick,  asleep  in  heavy  exhaustion, 
his  right  forearm  across  his  eyes.  The  girl  stole  a 
glance  at  Sam  Bolton.  Apparently  he  was  busy 
with  the  fire.  She  reached  out  to  touch  the  young 
man's  blanket. 


CHAPTER    ELEVEN 

Dick  was  afoot  after  a  few  hours'  sleep.  He 
aroused  Sam  and  went  about  the  preparation  of 
breakfast.  May-may-gwan  attempted  to  help,  but 
both  she  and  her  efforts  were  disregarded.  She 
brought  wood,  but  Dick  rustled  a  supply  just  the 
same,  paying  no  attention  to  the  girl's  little  pile; 
she  put  on  fresh  fuel,  but  Dick,  without  impatience, 
— indeed,  as  though  he  were  merely  rearranging  the 
tire, — contrived  to  undo  her  work;  she  brought  to 
hand  the  utensils,  but  Dick,  in  searching  for  them, 
always  looked  where  they  had  originally  been 
placed.  His  object  seemed  not  so  much  to  thwart 
the  girl  as  to  ignore  her.  When  breakfast  was 
ready  he  divided  it  into  two  portions,  one  of  which 
he  ate.  After  the  meal  he  washed  the  few  dishes. 
Once  he  took  a  cup  from  the  girl's  hand  as  she  was 
drying  it,  much  as  he  would  have  taken  it  from  the 
top  of  a  stump.  He  then  proceeded  to  clean  it  as 
though  it  had  just  been  used. 


106  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

May-may-gwan  made  no  sign  that  she  noticed 
these  things.  After  a  little  she  helped  Sam  roll  the 
blankets,  strike  the  shelter,  construct  the  packs. 
Here  her  assistance  was  accepted,  though  Sam  did 
not  address  her.  After  a  few  moments  the  start  was 
made. 

The  first  few  hours  were  spent  as  before,  wading 
the  stream.  As  she  could  do  nothing  in  the  water, 
May-may-gwan  kept  to  the  woods,  walking  stolidly 
onward,  her  face  to  the  front,  expressionless,  hiding 
whatever  pain  she  may  have  felt.  This  side  of  noon, 
however,  the  travellers  came  to  a  cataract  falling 
over  a  fifty-foot  ledge  into  a  long,  cliff-bordered 
pool. 

It  became  necessary  to  portage.  The  hill 
pinched  down  steep  and  close.  There  existed  no 
trails.  Dick  took  the  little  camp  axe  to  find  a  way. 
He  clambered  up  one  after  the  other  three  ra- 
vines— grown  with  brush  and  heavy  ferns,  damp 
with  a  trickle  of  water, — always  to  be  stopped  near 
the  summit  by  a  blank  wall  impossible  to  scale.  At 
length  he  found  a  passage  he  thought  might  be 
practicable.  Thereupon  he  cut  a  canoe  trail  back 
to  the  water -side. 


CHAPTER    ELEVEN  107 

In  clearing  this  trail  his  attention  turned  to 
making  room  for  a  canoe  on  a  man's  back.  There- 
fore the  footing  he  bothered  with  not  at  all.  Sap- 
lings he  clipped  down  by  bending  them  with  the  left 
hand,  and  striking  at  the  strained  fibres  where  they 
bowed.  A  single  blow  would  thus  fell  treelets  of 
some  size.  When  he  had  finished  his  work  there  re- 
sulted a  winding,  cylindrical  hole  in  the  forest 
growth  some  three  feet  from  the  ground.  Through 
this  cylinder  the  canoe  would  be  passed  while  its 
bearer  picked  a  practised  way  among  slippery 
rocks,  old  stubs,  new  sapling  stumps,  and  under- 
growth below.  Men  who  might,  in  later  years,  wish 
to  follow  this  Indian  trail,  would  look  not  for 
footprints  but  for  waist-high  indications  of  the 
axe. 

When  the  canoe  had  been  carried  to  the  top  of 
the  bluff  that  marked  the  water-fall,  it  was  re- 
launched in  a  pool.  In  the  meantime  May-may- 
gwan,  who  had  at  last  found  a  use  for  her  willing- 
ness, carried  the  packs.  Dick  re-embarked.  His 
companion  perceived  that  he  intended  to  shove  off 
as  soon  as  the  other  should  have  taken  his  place. 
Sam  frustrated  that,  however,  by  holding  fast  to 


108  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

the  gunwale.  May-may-gwdn  stepped  in  amid- 
ships, with  a  half -deprecating  glance  at  the  young 
man's  inscrutable  back.  At  the  end  of  the  brief 
paddling  the  upper  pool  allowed  them,  she  was  first 
ashore. 

Late  that  afternoon  the  travel  for  a  half  mile 
became  exceedingly  difficult.  The  stream  took  on 
the  character  of  a  mountain  brook.  It  hardly  paid 
to  float  the  canoe  in  the  tiny  holes  among  the  rocks, 
miniature  cascades,  and  tortuous  passages.  The 
forest  grew  to  the  very  banks,  and  arched  over  to 
exclude  the  sun.  Every  few  feet  was  to  be  avoided 
a  tree,  half  clinging  to  the  bank,  leaning  at  a  peri- 
lous slant  out  over  the  creek.  Fortunately  the 
spring  freshets  in  this  country  of  the  great  snows 
were  powerful  enough  to  sweep  out  the  timber  act- 
ually fallen,  so  the  course  of  the  stream  itself  was 
clear  of  jams.  At  length  the  travellers  reached  a 
beaver-dam,  and  so  to  a  little  round  lake  among  the 
hills.  They  had  come  to  the  head  waters  of  the 
Mattawishguia. 

In  the  lake  stood  two  moose,  old  and  young. 
Dick  succeeded  in  killing  the  yearling,  though  it 
took  two  shots  from  his  Winchester.  It  was  de- 


CHAPTER    ELEVEN  109 

cided  to  camp  here  over  one  day  in  order  that  the 
meat  might  be  saved. 

A  circle  of  hills  surrounded  the  little  body  of 
water.  On  them  grew  maples  and  birches,  among 
which  scattered  a  few  hemlocks  and  an  occasional 
pine.  At  the  edge  of  the  water  were  cedars  lean- 
ing out  to  look  at  their  reflections.  A  deep  and  sol- 
emn peace  seemed  to  brood  over  the  miniature  lake. 
Such  affairs  as  bird  songs,  the  slap  of  a  paddle,  the 
shots  from  Dick's  rifle  could  not  break  this  strange 
stillness.  They  spoke  hastily,  and  relapsed  to  si- 
lence, like  the  rare  necessary  voices  in  a  room  where 
one  lies  dead.  The  hush,  calm  and  primal,  with  the 
infinity  of  the  wilderness  as  its  only  measure  of  time, 
took  no  account  of  the  shock  of  a  second's  inter- 
ruption. Two  loons  swam  like  ghosts.  Every- 
where and  nowhere  among  the  trees,  in  the  hills, 
over  the  water,  the  finer  senses  were  almost  uneasily 
conscious  of  a  vast  and  awful  presence.  It  was  as 
yet  aloof,  unheeding,  buddhistic,  brooding  in  nir- 
vanic  calm,  still  unawakened  to  put  forth  the  might 
of  its  displeasure.  Under  its  dreaming  eyes  men 
might,  fearfully  and  with  reverence,  carry  on  their 
affairs, — fearfully  and  with  reverence,  catching  the 


110  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

breath,  speaking  low,  growing  silent  and  stern  /n 

the  presence  of  the  North. 

At  the  little  camp  under  the  cedars,  Dick  Herron 
and  Sam  Bolton,  assisted  by  the  Ojibway  girl,  May- 
may-gwan,  cut  the  moose-meat  into  thin  strips, 
salted,  and  dried  it  in  the  bright  sun.  And  since 
the  presence  of  loons  argued  fish,  they  set  their  net* 
and  lines.  Several  days  thus  passed. 

In  their  relations  the  three  promptly  settled  back 
into  a  species  of  routine.  Men  who  travel  in  the 
Silent  Places  speedily  take  on  the  colour  of  their 
surroundings.  They  become  silent  also.  A  band 
of  voyageurs  of  sufficient  strength  may  chatter  and 
sing ;  they  have  by  the  very  force  of  numbers  created 
an  atmosphere  of  their  own.  But  two  are  not 
enough  for  this.  They  have  little  to  say,  for  their 
souls  are  laved  by  the  great  natural  forces. 

Dick  Herron,  even  in  ordinary  circumstances, 
withdrew  rather  grimly  into  himself.  He  looked 
out  at  things  from  beneath  knit  brows ;  he  held  his 
elbows  close  to  his  sides,  his  fists  clenched,  his  whole 
spiritual  being  self-contained  and  apart,  watchful 
for  enmity  in  what  he  felt  but  could  not  understand. 
But  to  this,  his  normal  habit,  now  was  added  a  sul 


CHAPTER    ELEVEN  111 

lenness  almost  equally  instinctive.  In  some  way  he 
felt  himself  aggrieved  by  the  girl's  presence.  At 
first  it  was  merely  the  natural  revolt  of  a  very  young 
man  against  assuming  responsibility  he  had  not  in- 
vited. The  resulting  discomfort  of  mind,  however, 
he  speedily  assigned  to  the  girl's  account.  He  con- 
tinued, as  at  first,  to  ignore  her.  But  in  the  slow 
rumination  of  the  forest  he  became  more  and  more 
irritably  sensible  of  her  presence.  Sam's  tacitur- 
nity was  contrastedly  sunny  and  open.  He  looked 
on  things  about  him  with  the  placid  receptivity  of 
an  old  man,  and  said  nothing  because  there  was 
nothing  to  say.  The  Ojibway  girl  remained  in- 
scrutable, helping  where  she  could,  apparently  de- 
sirous of  neither  praise  nor  blame. 

At  the  end  of  three  days  the  provisions  were 
ready.  There  had  resulted  perhaps  sixty  pounds 
of  "jerky."  It  now  became  necessary  to  leave  the 
water-way,  and  to  strike  directly  through  the  for- 
est, over  the  hills,  and  into  the  country  of  the  Ka- 
binikagam. 

Dick  shouldered  a  thirty-pound  pack  and  the  ca- 
noe. Sam  Bolton  and  the  girl  managed  the  re- 
mainder. Every  twenty  minutes  or  so  they  would 


112  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

rest,  sinking  back  against  the  trunks  of  trees,  mossy 
stones,  or  a  bank  of  new  ferns.  The  forest  was  open 
and  inexpressibly  lofty.  Moose  maples,  young 
birches,  and  beeches  threw  their  coolness  across  the 
face,  then  above  them  the  columns  of  the  trunks, 
then  far  up  in  green  distance  the  leaves  again,  like 
the  gold-set  roof  of  a  church.  The  hill  mounted 
always  before  them.  Ancient  rocks  hoary  with 
moss,  redolent  of  dampness,  stood  like  abandoned 
altars  given  over  to  decay.  A  strange,  sweet  wind 
freighted  with  stray  bird-notes  wandered  aimlessly. 

Nothing  was  said.  Dick  led  the  way  and  set  the 
intervals  of  the  carrying.  When  he  swung  the 
canoe  from  his  shoulders  the  others  slipped  their 
tump-lines.  Then  all  rubbed  their  faces  with  the 
broad  caribou-leaf  to  keep  off  the  early  flies,  and 
lay  back,  arms  extended,  breathing  deep,  resting 
like  boxers  between  the  rounds.  Once  at  the  top  of 
the  ridge  Dick  climbed  a  tree.  He  did  this,  not  so 
much  in  expectation  of  seeing  the  water-courses 
themselves,  as  to  judge  by  the  general  lay  of  the 
country  where  they  might  be  found. 

In  a  bare  open  space  under  hemlocks  Sam  indi- 
cated a  narrow,  high,  little  pen,  perhaps  three  feet 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN  113 

long  by  six  inches  wide,  made  of  cut  saplings. 
Dick  examined  it. 

"Marten  deadfall,"  he  pronounced.  "Made  last 
winter.  Somebody's  been  trapping  through  here." 

After  a  time  a  blaze  on  a  tree  was  similarly  re- 
marked. Then  the  travellers  came  to  a  tiny  creek, 
which,  being  followed,  soon  debouched  into  a  larger. 
This  in  turn  became  navigable,  after  the  north- 
country  fashion.  That  is  to  say,  the  canoe  with  its 
load  could  much  of  the  time  be  floated  down  by  the 
men  wading  in  the  bed  of  the  creek.  Finally  Sam, 
who  was  in  the  lead,  jerked  his  head  toward  the  left 
bank. 

"Their  winter  camp,"  said  he,  briefly. 

A  dim  trail  led  from  the  water  to  a  sheltered 
knoll.  There  stood  the  framework  of  a  pointed 
tepee,  the  long  poles  spread  like  fingers  above  their 
crossing  point.  A  little  pile  of  gnawed  white  skulls 
of  various  sizes  represented  at  least  a  portion  of  the 
season's  catch.  Dick  turned  them  over  with  his 
foot,  identifying  them  idly.  From  the  sheltered 
branches  of  a  near-by  spruce  hung  four  pairs  of 
snow-shoes  cached  there  until  the  next  winter.  Sam 
gave  his  first  attention  to  these. 


114  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

"A  man,  a  woman,  and  two  well-grown  children," 
he  pronounced.  He  ran  his  hand  over  the  bulging 
raquette  with  the  long  tail  and  the  slightly  up- 
curved  end.  "Ojibway  pattern,"  he  concluded. 
"Dick,  we're  in  the  first  hunting  district.  Here's 
where  we  get  down  to  business." 

He  went  over  the  ground  twice  carefully,  exam- 
ining the  state  of  the  offal,  the  indications  of  the 
last  fire. 

"They've  been  gone  about  six  weeks,"  he  sur- 
mised. "If  they  ain't  gone  visiting,  they  must  be 
down-stream  somewheres.  These  fellows  don't 
get  in  to  trade  their  fur  'till  along  about 
August." 

Two  days  subsequent,  late  in  the  afternoon,  Dick 
pointed  out  what  looked  to  be  a  dark  streak  be- 
neath a  bowlder  that  lay  some  distance  from  the 
banks  on  a  shale  bar. 

"What's  that  animal?"  he  asked. 

"Can't  make  her  out,"  said  Bolton,  after  inspec- 
tion. 

"Ninny-moosh,"  said  the  Indian  girl,  indiffer- 
ently. It  was  the  first  word  she  had  spoken  since 
her  talk  with  the  older  man. 


CHAPTER    ELEVEN  115 

*4It's  a  dog,  all  right,"  conceded  Sara.  "She  has 
sharp  eyes." 

The  animal  rose  and  began  to  bark.  Two  more 
crashed  toward  him  through  the  bushes.  A  thin 
stream  of  smoke  disengaged  itself  from  the  tops  of 
the  forest  trees.  As  they  swept  around  the  bend 
the  travellers  saw  a  man  contemplating  them  stol 
idly  through  a  screen  of  leaves. 

The  canoe  floated  on.  About  an  hundred  yards 
below  the  Indians  Sam  ordered  a  landing.  Camp 
was  made  as  usual.  Supper  was  cooked.  The  fire 
replenished.  Then,  just  before  the  late  sunset  of 
the  Far  North,  the  bushes  crackled. 

"Now  let  me  do  the  talking,"  warned  Sam. 

"All  right.  I'll  just  keep  my  eye  on  this,"  Dick 
nodded  toward  the  girl.  "She's  Ojibway,  too,  you 
know.  She  may  give  us  away." 

"She  can't  only  guess,"  Sam  reminded.  "But 
there  ain't  any  danger,  anyway." 

The  leaves  parted.  The  Indian  appeared,  saun- 
tering with  elaborate  carelessness,  his  beady  eyes 
shifting  here  and  there  in  an  attempt  to  gather 
what  these  people  might  be  about. 

"Bo'  jou',  bo'  jou',"  he  greeted  them. 


CHAPTER    TWELVE 

The  Indian  advanced  silently  to  the  fireside,  when 
he  squatted  on  his  heels.  He  filled  a  pipe,  scraping 
the  tobacco  from  the  square  plug  Sam  extended  to 
him.  While  he  did  this,  and  while  he  stuffed  it  into 
the  bowl,  his  keen  eyes  shifted  here  and  there,  gath- 
ering the  material  for  conclusions. 

Sam,  watchful  but  also  silent,  could  almost  fol- 
low his  mental  processes.  The  canoe  meant  travel, 
the  meagreness  of  the  outfits  either  rapid  or  short 
travel,  the  two  steel  traps  travel  beyond  the  sources 
of  supply.  Then  inspection  passed  lightly  over  the 
girl  and  from  her  to  the  younger  man.  With  a 
flash  of  illumination  Sam  Bolton  saw  how  valuable 
in  allaying  suspicion  this  evidence  of  a  peaceful  er- 
rand might  prove  to  be.  Men  did  not  bring  their 
women  on  important  missions  involving  speed  and 
danger. 

Abruptly  the  Indian  spoke,  going  directly  to  the 

heart  of  the  matter,  after  the  Indian  fashion. 
116 


CHAPTER    TWELVE  117 

"Where  you  from?" 

"Winnipeg,"  replied  Sam,  naming  the  headquar- 
ters of  the  Company. 

The  direction  of  travel  was  toward  Winnipeg. 
Sam  was  perfectly  aware  of  the  discrepancy,  but 
he  knew  better  than  to  offer  gratuitous  explanation. 
The  Indian  smoked. 

"Where  you  come  from  now?"  he  inquired, 
finally. 

"  'Tschi-gammi."* 

This  was  understandable.  Remained  only  the  ob- 
ject of  an  expedition  of  this  peculiar  character. 
Sam  Bolton  knew  that  the  Indian  would  satisfy 
himself  by  surmises, — he  would  never  apply  the  di- 
rect question  to  a  man's  affairs, — and  surmise  might 
come  dangerously  near  the  truth.  So  he  proceeded 
to  impart  a  little  information  in  his  own  way. 

"You  are  the  hunter  of  this  district?"  Sam 
asked. 

"Yes." 

"How  far  do  you  trap?" 

The  Indian  mentioned  creeks  and  rivers  as  his 
boundaries. 

*  Lake  Superior. 


116  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

"Where  do  you  get  your  debt?" 

"Missinaibi." 

"That  is  a  long  trail." 

"Yes." 

"Do  many  take  it  each  year?" 

The  Indian  mentioned  rapidly  a  dozen  names  of 
families. 

Sam  at  once  took  another  tack. 

"I  do  not  know  this  country.  Are  there  large 
lakes?" 

"There  is  Animiki." 

"Has  it  fish?    Good  wood?" 

"Much  wood.  Oga,*  kinoj."f 

Sam  paused. 

"Could  a  brigade  of  canoes  reach  it  easily?"  he 
inquired. 

Now  a  brigade  is  distinctly  an  institution  of  the 
Honourable  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company.  It  is  used 
for  two  purposes;  to  maintain  communication  with 
the  outside  world,  and  to  establish  winter  camps  in 
the  autumn  or  to  break  them  up  in  the  spring.  At 
once  the  situation  became  clear.  A  gleam  of  com- 
prehension flashed  over  the  Indian's  eyes.  With  the 
*  Pickerel.  t  Pike. 


CHAPTER    TWELVE  119 

peculiar  attention  to  detail  distinctively  the  forest 
runner's  he  indicated  a  route.  Sam  was  satisfied  to 
let  the  matter  rest  there  for  the  present. 

The  next  evening  he  visited  the  Indian's  camp. 
It  was  made  under  a  spreading  tree,  the  tepee  poles 
partly  resting  against  some  of  the  lower  branches. 
The  squaw  and  her  woman  child  kept  to  the  shad- 
ows of  the  wigwam,  but  the  boy,  a  youth  of  perhaps 
fifteen  years,  joined  the  men  by  the  fire. 

Sam  accepted  the  hospitality  of  a  pipe  of  to- 
bacco, and  attacked  the  question  in  hand  from  a 
ground  tacitly  assumed  since  the  evening  before. 

"If  Hutsonbaycompany  make  winterpost  on 
Animiki  will  you  get  your  debt  there  instead  of 
Missinaibie?"  he  asked  first  of  all. 

Of  course  the  Indian  assented. 

"How  much  fur  do  you  get,  good  year?" 

The  Indian  rapidly  ran  over  a  list. 

"Lots  of  fur.  Is  it  going  to  last?  Do  you  keep 
district  strict  here?"  inquired  Sam. 

Under  cover  of  this  question  Sam  was  feeling  for 
important  information.  As  has  perhaps  been  men- 
tioned, in  a  normal  Indian  community  each  head  of 
a  family  is  assigned  certain  hunting  districts  over 


IkJO  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

which  he  has  exclusive  hunting  and  trapping  pri* 
ileges.  This  naturally  tends  toward  preservation 
of  the  fur.  An  Indian  knows  not  only  where  each 
beaver  dam  is  situated,  but  he  knows  also  the  num- 
ber of  beaver  it  contains  and  how  many  can  be  taken 
without  diminution  of  the  supply.  If,  however,  the 
privileges  are  not  strictly  guarded,  such  modera- 
tion does  not  obtain.  When  an  Indian  finds  a  dam, 
he  cleans  it  out;  because  if  he  does  not,  the  next 
comer  will.  Sam's  question  then  apparently  had 
reference  only  to  the  probability  that  the  fur  in  a 
close  district  would  be  strictly  enough  preserved  to 
make  the  establishment  of  a  winter  post  worth  while. 
In  reality  he  wanted  to  measure  the  possibility  of 
an  outsider's  gaining  a  foothold.  Logically  in  a 
section  where  the  tribal  rights  were  rigidly  held  to, 
this  would  be  impossible  except  through  friendship 
or  purchase;  while  in  a  more  loosely  organized 
community  a  stranger  might  readily  insinuate  him- 
self. 

"Good  keeping  of  district,"  replied  the  Indian. 
"I  keep  head-waters  of  Kabinikagam  down  to  Sand 
River.  When  I  find  man  trapping  on  my  ground, 
I  shoot  him.  Fur  last  all  right." 


CHAPTER    TWELVE  121 

This  sufficed  for  the  moment.  The  next  morning 
Sam  went  over  early  to  the  other  camp. 

"To-day  I  think  we  go,"  he  announced.  "Now 
you  tell  me  all  the  hunters,  where  I  find  them,  what 
are  their  districts,  how  much  fur  they  kill." 

"Ah  hah !"  assented  the  Indian.  Sam's  leisurely 
and  indirect  method  had  convinced  him.  Easily 
given  information  on  the  other  hand  would  have  set 
him  to  thinking;  and  to  think,  with  an  Indian,  is 
usually  to  become  suspicious. 

The  two  descended  to  the  shore.  There  they 
squatted  on  their  heels  before  a  little  patch  of  wet 
sand  while  the  Indian  explained.  He  marked 
roughly,  but  with  almost  the  accuracy  of  a  survey, 
the  courses  of  streams  and  hills,  and  told  of  th< 
routes  among  them.  Sam  listened,  his  gnarled  ma- 
hogany hand  across  his  mouth,  his  shrewd  gray 
eyes  bent  attentively  on  the  cabalistic  signs  and 
scratches.  An  Indian  will  remember,  from  once 
traversing  it,  not  only  the  greater  landmarks,  but 
the  little  incidents  of  bowlder,  current,  eddy,  strip 
of  woods,  bend  of  trail.  It  remains  clear-cut  in  hk 
mind  forever  after.  The  old  woodsman  had  in  hir 
long  experience  acquired  something  of  this  faculty. 


122  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

He  comprehended  the  details,  and,  what  is  more, 
stored  them  away  in  his  memory  where  he  could 
turn  to  them  readily.  This  was  no  small  feat. 

With  an  abrupt  movement  of  the  back  of  his 
hand  the  Indian  smoothed  the  sand.  Squatting 
back  more  on  his  haunches,  he  refilled  his  pipe  and 
began  to  tell  of  the  trappers.  In  their  description 
he  referred  always  to  the  map  he  had  drawn  on  Bol- 
ton's  imagination  as  though  it  had  actually  lain 
spread  out  before  them.  Sam  referred  each  name 
to  its  district,  as  you  or  I  would  write  it  across  the 
section  of  a  chart,  and  kept  accurately  in  mind 
which  squares  of  the  invisible  map  had  been  thus  as- 
signed and  which  not.  It  was  an  extraordinary  ef- 
fort, but  one  not  unusual  among  practised  woods 
runners.  This  peculiarly  minute  and  concrete 
power  of  recollection  is  early  developed  in  the  wild 
life. 

The  Indian  finished.  Sam  remained  a  moment  in 
contemplation.  The  districts  were  all  occupied,  and 
the  name  of  Jingoss  did  not  appear.  That  was, 
however,  a  small  matter.  The  Ojibway  might  well 
have  changed  his  name,  or  he  might  be  paying  for 
^he  privilege  of  hunting  in  another  man's  territory. 


CHAPTER  TWELVE  123 

A  less  experienced  man  would  have  been  strongly 
tempted  to  the  more  direct  question.  But  Sam  knew 
that  the  faintest  hint  of  ulterior  motive  would  not 
be  lost  on  the  Indian's  sharp  perceptions.  An  in- 
quiry, carelessly  and  indirectly  made,  might  do  no 
harm.  But  then  again  it  might.  And  it  was  bet- 
ter to  lose  two  years  of  time  in  the  search  than  a  sin- 
gle grain  of  confidence  in  those  with  whom  the  little 
party  might  come  in  contact. 

After  all,  Sam  Bolton  was  well  satisfied.  He  had, 
by  his  simple  diplomacy,  gained  several  valuable 
results.  He  had  firmly  convinced  one  man  of  a  com- 
mon body,  wherein  news  travels  quickly,  of  his  ap- 
parent intentions;  he  had,  furthermore,  an  exact 
knowledge  of  where  to  find  each  and  every  district 
head-man  of  the  whole  Kabinikagam  country. 
Whether  or  not  the  man  he  sought  would  prove  to 
be  one  of  these  head-men,  or  the  guest  or  lessee  of 
one  of  them,  was  a  question  only  to  be  answered  by 
direct  search.  At  least  he  knew  where  to  search, 
which  was  a  distinct  and  valuable  advantage. 

"Mi-gwetch — thank  you,"  he  said  to  the  Indian 
when  he  had  finished.  "I  understand.  I  go  now  to 
see  the  Lake.  I  go  to  talk  to  each  of  your  head- 


124  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

men.  I  go  to  see  the  trapping  country  with  my  own 
eyes.  When  I  have  seen  all,  I  go  to  Winnipeg  to 
tell  my  head-man  what  I  have  seen." 

The  Indian  nodded.  It  would  have  been  quite 
inconceivable  to  him  had  Sam  suggested  accepting 
anything  less  than  the  evidence  of  his  eyes. 

The  three  resumed  their  journey  that  afternoon. 
Sam  knew  exactly  where  he  was  going.  Dick  had 
fallen  into  a  sullen  yet  rebellious  mood,  unaccounta- 
ble even  to  himself.  In  his  spirit  was  the  ferment 
of  a  resentfulness  absolutely  without  logical  object. 
With  such  a  man  ferment  demands  action.  Here, 
in  the  accustomed  labours  of  this  woods  travel,  was 
nothing  to  bite  on  save  monotony.  Dick  Herron 
resented  the  monotony,  resented  the  deliberation 
necessary  to  so  delicate  a  mission,  resented  the  un- 
varying tug  of  his  tump-line  or  the  unchanging 
yield  of  the  water  to  his  paddle,  resented  the  pla- 
cidity of  the  older  man,  above  all  resented  the  meek 
and  pathetic  submissiveness  of  the  girl.  His  nar- 
row eyes  concentrated  their  gaze  ominously.  He 
muttered  to  himself.  The  untrained,  instinctive 
strength  of  the  man's  spirit  fretted  against  delay. 
His  enthusiasm,  the  fire  of  his  hope,  urged  him  to 


CHAPTER   TWELVE  125 

earn  his  self-approval  by  great  exertion.  Great 
exertion  was  impossible.  Always,  day  by  day,  night 
by  night,  he  chafed  at  the  snail-like  pace  with  which 
things  moved,  chafed  at  the  delay  imposed  by  the 
nature  of  the  quest,  the  policy  of  the  old  man,  the 
presence  of  the  girl.  Only,  in  the  rudimentary 
processes  of  his  intelligence,  he  confused  the  three  in 
one,  and  the  presence  of  the  girl  alone  received  the 
brunt  of  his  sullen  displeasure.  In  the  splendour 
of  his  strength,  head  down,  heart  evil,  restrained 
to  a  bitter  obedience  only  by  the  knowledge  that  he 
could  do  nothing  alone,  he  broke  through  the 
opposing  wildernef.fi. 


CHAPTER    THIRTEEN 

Sam  Bolton  gauged  perfectly  the  spirit  in  his  com- 
rade, but  paid  it  little  attention.  He  knew  it  as  a 
chemical  reaction  of  a  certain  phase  of  forest  travel. 
It  argued  energy,  determination,  dogged  pluck 
when  the  need  should  arise,  and  so  far  it  was  good. 
The  woods  life  affects  various  men  in  various  ways, 
but  all  in  a  manner  peculiar  to  itself.  It  is  a  reagent 
unlike  any  to  be  found  in  other  modes  of  life.  The 
moment  its  influence  reaches  the  spirit,  in  that  mo- 
ment does  the  man  change  utterly  from  the  person 
he  has  been  in  other  and  ordinary  surroundings; 
and  the  instant  he  emerges  from  its  control  he  re- 
verts to  his  accustomed  bearing.  But  in  the  dwell- 
ing of  the  woods  he  becomes  silent.  It  may  be  the 
silence  of  a  self-contained  sufficiency ;  the  silence  of 
an  equable  mind ;  the  silence  variously  of  awe,  even 
of  fear;  it  may  be  the  silence  of  sullenness.  This, 
as  much  as  the  vast  stillness  of  the  wilderness,  has 
earned  for  the  region  its  designation  of  the  Silent 
Places. 

126 


CHAPTER    THIRTEEN  12? 

Nor  did  the  older  woodsman  fear  any  direct  re- 
sults from  the  younger's  very  real,  though  baseless, 
anger.  These  men  were  bound  together  by  some- 
thing stronger  than  any  part  of  themselves.  Over 
them  stood  the  Company,  and  to  its  commands  all 
other  things  gave  way.  No  matter  how  rebellious 
might  be  Dick  Herron's  heart,  how  ruffled  the  sur- 
face of  his  daily  manner,  Bolton  knew  perfectly 
well  he  would  never  for  a  single  instant  swerve  in  his 
loyalty  to  the  main  object  of  the  expedition.  Se- 
rene in  this  consciousness,  the  old  woodsman  dwelt 
in  a  certain  sweet  and  gentle  rumination  of  his  own. 
Among  the  finer  instincts  of  his  being  many  subtle 
mysteries  of  the  forest  found  their  correspondences. 
The  feeling  of  these  satisfied  him  entirely,  though 
of  course  he  was  incapable  of  their  intellectualisa- 
tion. 

The  days  succeeded  one  another.  The  camps  by 
the  rivers  or  in  the  woods  were  in  essential  all  alike. 
The  shelter,  the  shape,  and  size  of  the  tiny  clearing, 
the  fire,  the  cooking  utensils  scattered  about,  the 
little  articles  of  personal  belonging  were  the  same. 
Only  certain  details  of  surrounding  differed,  and 
they  were  not  of  importance, — birch-trees  for  pop- 


1S8  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

lars,  cedar  for  both,  a  river  bend  to  the  northwest 
instead  of  the  southwest,  still  water  for  swift,  a  low 
bank  for  a  high ;  but  always  trees,  water,  bank,  and 
the  sky  brilliant  with  stars.  After  a  little  the  day's 
progress  became  a  myth,  to  be  accepted  only  by  the 
exercise  of  fa\th.  The  forest  was  a  great  tread- 
mill in  which  men  toiled  all  day,  only  to  be  sur- 
rounded at  night  by  the  same  grandeurs  and  little- 
nesses they  had  that  morning  left.  In  the  face  of 
this  apparent  futility  time  blew  vast.  Years  were 
as  nothing  measured  by  the  task  of  breaking 
through  the  enchanted  web  that  enmeshed  them. 

And  yet  all  knew  by  experience,  though  no  one  of 
them  could  rise  to  a  realisation  of  the  fact,  that  some 
day  their  canoe  would  round  the  bend  and  they 
would  find  themselves  somewhere.  Then  they  could 
say  to  themselves  that  they  had  arrived,  and  could 
tell  themselves  that  between  here  and  their  starting- 
point  lay  so  many  hundred  miles.  Yet  in  their  se- 
cret hearts  they  would  not  believe  it.  They  would 
know  that  in  reality  it  lay  but  just  around  the  cor- 
ner. Only  between  were  dream-days  of  the  shifting 
forest  heavy  with  toil. 

This  is  the  enchantment  the  North  lays  on  her 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN  129 

children,  so  that  when  the  toil  oppresses  them  and 
death  seems  to  win,  they  may  not  care  greatly  to 
struggle,  knowing  that  the  struggle  is  vain. 

In  the  country  of  the  Kabinikagam  they  visited 
thus  many  hunting  districts.  The  travel  neither 
hastened  nor  lagged.  From  time  to  time  it  was 
necessary  to  kill,  and  then  the  meat  must  be  cared 
for.  Berries  and  wild  rice  were  to  be  gathered. 
July  drew  near  its  end. 

Sam  Bolton,  knowing  now  the  men  with  whom 
he  had  to  deal,  found  no  difficulty  in  the  exercise  of 
his  simple  diplomacy.  The  Ojibway  defaulter  was 
not  to  be  heard  of,  but  every  nook  searched  without 
result  narrowed  the  remaining  possibilities.  Every- 
thing went  well  enough  until  late  one  after- 
noon. 

The  portage  happened  to  lead  above  a  narrow 
gorge  over  a  rapids.  To  accomplish  it  the  travel- 
lers had  first  to  scale  a  steep  little  hill,  then  to  skirt 
a  huge  rounded  rock  that  overhung  the  gorge. 
The  roughness  of  the  surface  and  the  adhesive 
power  of  their  moccasins  alone  held  them  to  the 
slant.  These  were  well  sufficient.  Unfortunately, 
however,  Dick,  without  noticing  it,  had  stepped  into 


130  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

a  little  pool  of  water  on  disembarking.  Buckskin 
while  dry  is  very  adhesive ;  when  wet  very  slippery. 
As  he  followed  Sam  out  on  the  curving  cheek  of  the 
rock  his  foot  slid,  he  lost  his  equilibrium,  was  on  the 
edge  of  falling,  overbalanced  by  the  top-heavy  pack 
he  was  carrying.  Luckily  Sam  himself  was  por- 
taging the  canoe.  Dick,  with  marvellous  quickness, 
ducked  loose  from  the  tump-line.  The  pack  bound- 
ed down  the  slant,  fell  with  a  splash,  and  was 
whirled  away.  With  the  impetus  of  the  same  mo- 
tion the  young'  man  twisted  himself  as  violently  as 
possible  to  regain  his  footing.  He  would  prob- 
ably have  succeeded  had  it  not  been  for  the  Indian 
girl.  She  had  been  following  the  two,  a  few  steps 
in  the  rear.  As  Dick's  foot  turned,  she  slipped  her 
own  pack  and  sprang  forward,  reaching  out  her 
arm  in  the  hope  of  steadying  him.  Unfortunately 
she  did  this  only  in  time  to  get  in  the  way  of  the 
strong  twist  Dick  made  for  recovery.  The  young 
man  tottered  for  an  instant  on  the  very  brink  of 
saving  himself,  then  gave  it  up,  and  fell  as  loosely 
as  possible  into  the  current. 

May-may-gwan,  aghast  at  what  she  had  donej 
stood   paralyzed,   staring  into  the   gorge.     San? 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN  131 

swung  the  canoe  from  his  shoulders  and  ran  on  over 
the  hill  and  down  the  other  side. 

The  Indian  girl  saw  the  inert  body  of  the  woods- 
man dashed  down  through  the  moil  and  water,  now 
showing  an  arm,  now  a  leg,  only  once,  for  a  single 
instant,  the  head.  Twice  it  hit  obstacles,  limp  as  a 
sack  of  flour.  Then  it  disappeared. 

Immediately  she  regained  the  use  of  her  legs, 
and  scrambled  over  the  hill  after  Sam,  her  breath 
strangling  her.  She  found  below  the  rapids  a  pool, 
and  half  in  the  water  at  its  edge  Dick  seated,  bruised 
and  cut,  spitting  water,  and  talking  excitedly  to 
his  companion.  Instantly  she  understood.  The 
young  woods  runner,  with  the  rare  quickness  of  ex- 
pedient peculiar  to  these  people,  had  allowed  him- 
self to  be  carried  through  the  rapids  muscle-loose, 
as  an  inanimate  object  would  be  carried,  without 
an  attempt  to  help  himself  in  any  way.  It  was  a 
desperate  chance,  but  it  was  the  only  choice.  The 
slightest  stiffening  of  the  muscles,  the  least  struggle 
would  have  thrown  him  out  of  the  water's  natural 
channel  against  the  bowlders;  and  then  a  rigidly 
held  body  would  have  offered  only  too  good  a  resist- 
ance to  the  shock.  By  a  miracle  of  fortune  he  had 


438  THE   SILENT   PLACES 

been  carried  through,  bruised  and  injured,  to  be 
sure,  but  conscious.  Sam  had  dragged  him  to  the 
bush-grown  bank.  There  he  sat  up  in  the  water 
and  cleared  his  lungs.  He  was  wildly  excited. 

"She  did  it!"  he  burst  out,  as  soon  as  he  could 
speak.  "She  did  it  a  purpose!  She  reached  out 
and  pushed  me !  By  God,  there  she  is  now !" 

With  the  instinct  of  the  hunter  he  had  managed 
to  cling  to  his  rifle.  He  wrenched  at  the  magazine 
lever,  throwing  the  muzzle  forward  for  a  shot,  but 
it  had  been  jammed,  and  he  was  unable  to  move  it. 

"She  reached  out  and  pushed  me !  I  felt  her  do 
it !"  he  cried.  He  attempted  to  rise,  but  fell  back, 
groaning  with  a  pain  that  kept  him  quiet  for  sev- 
eral moments. 

"Sam!"  he  muttered,  "she's  there  yet.  Kill  her. 
Damn  it,  didn't  you  see !  I  had  my  balance  again, 
and  she  -ushed  me!  She  had  it  in  for  me!"  His 
face  whnened  for  an  instant  as  he  moved,  then 
flooded  with  a  red  anger.  "My  God !"  he  cried,  in 
the  anguish  of  a  strong  man  laid  low,  "she's  bust- 
ed me  all  over!"  He  wrenched  loose  his  shoulders 
from  Sam's  support,  struggled  to  his  knees,  and  fell 
back,  a  groan  of  pain  seeming  fairly  to  burst  from 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN  133 

his  heart.  His  head  hit  sharply  against  a  stone. 
He  lay  still. 

"May-may-gwan !"  called  Sam  Bolton,  sharply. 

She  came  at  once,  running  eagerly,  the  paralysis 
of  her  distress  broken  by  his  voice.  Sam  directed 
her  by  nods  of  the  head.  With  some  difficulty  they 
carried  the  unconscious  man  to  the  flat  and  laid  him 
down,  his  head  on  Sam's  rolled  coat.  Then,  while 
May-may-gwan,  under  his  curtly  delivered  direc- 
tions, built  a  fire,  heated  water,  carried  down  the 
two  remaining  packs  and  opened  them,  Sam  ten- 
derly removed  Dick's  clothes,  and  examined  him 
from  head  to  foot.  The  cuts  on  the  head  were  noth- 
ing to  a  strong  man ;  the  bruises  less.  Manipula- 
tion discovered  nothing  wrong  with  the  collar-bone 
and  ribs.  But  at  last  Sam  uttered  a  quick  excla- 
mation of  discovery. 

Dick's  right  ankle  was  twisted  strongly  outward 
and  back. 

An  inexperienced  man  would  have  pronounced  it 
a  dislocation,  but  Sam  knew  better.  He  knew  better 
because  just  once,  nearly  fifteen  years  before,  he 
had  assisted  Dr.  Cockburn  at  Conjuror's  House  in 
the  caring  for  exactly  such  an  accident.  Now  he 


134  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

stood  for  some  moments  in  silence  recalling  pain- 
fully each  little  detail  of  what  he  had  observed  and 
of  what  the  physician  had  told  him. 

Rapidly  by  means  of  twigs  and  a  tracing  on  the 
wet  sand  he  explained  to  May-may-gwan  what  was 
the  matter  and  what  was  to  be  done.  The  fibula,  or 
outer  bone  of  the  leg,  had  been  snapped  at  its  lower 
end  just  above  the  ankle,  the  foot  had  been  dislo- 
cated to  one  side,  and  either  the  inner  ligament  of 
the  ankle  had  given  way,  or — what  would  be 
more  serious — one  of  the  ankle-bones  itself  had  been 
torn.  Sam  Bolton  realised  fully  that  it  was  advisa- 
ble to  work  with  the  utmost  rapidity,  before  the 
young  man  should  regain  consciousness,  in  order 
that  the  reduction  of  the  fracture  might  be  made 
while  the  muscles  were  relaxed.  Nevertheless,  he 
took  time  both  to  settle  his  own  ideas,  and  to  explain 
them  to  the  girl.  It  was  the  luckiest  chance  of  Dick 
Herron's  life  that  he  happened  to  be  travelling 
with  the  one  man  who  had  assisted  in  the  skilled 
treatment  of  such  a  case.  Otherwise  he  would  most 
certainly  have  been  crippled. 

Sam  first  of  all  pried  from  the  inner  construction 
.af  the  canoe  two  or  three  of  the  flat  cedar  strips 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN  1S5 

used  to  reinforce  the  bottom.  These  he  laid  in  sev- 
eral thicknesses  to  make  a  board  of  some  strength. 
On  the  board  he  folded  a  blanket  in  wedge  form, 
the  thick  end  terminating  abruptly  three  or  four 
inches  from  the  bottom.  He  laid  aside  several  buck- 
skin thongs,  and  set  May-ma y-gwan  to  ripping 
bandages  of  such  articles  of  clothing  as  might  suit. 

Then  he  bent  the  injured  leg  at  the  knee.  May- 
may-gwan  held  it  in  that  position,  while  Sam  ma- 
nipulated the  foot  into  what  he  judged  to  be  the 
proper  position.  Especially  did  he  turn  the  foot 
strongly  inward  that  the  inner  ankle-bone  might 
fall  to  its  place.  As  to  the  final  result  he  confessed 
himself  almost  painfully  in  doubt,  but  did  the  best 
he  knew.  He  remembered  the  post-surgeon's  cun- 
ning comments,  and  tried  to  assure  himself  that  the 
fractured  ends  of  the  bones  met  each  other  fairly, 
without  the  intervention  of  tendons  or  muscle-cover- 
ing, and  that  there  was  no  obstruction  to  the  move- 
ments of  the  ankle.  When  he  had  finished,  his  brow 
was  wrinkled  with  anxiety,  but  he  was  satisfied  that 
he  had  done  to  the  limit  of  his  knowledge. 

May-may-gwan  now  held  the  cedar  board,  with 
its  pad,  against  the  inside  of  the  leg.  Sam  bound 


136  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

the  thin  end  of  the  wedge-shaped  blanket  to  the 
knee.  Thus  the  thick  end  of  the  pad  pressed 
against  the  calf  just  above  the  ankle,  leaving  the 
foot  and  the  injured  bone  free  of  the  board.  Sam 
passed  a  broad  buckskin  thong  about  the  ankle  and 
foot  in  such  a  manner  as  to  hold  the  foot  from 
again  turning  out.  Thus  the  fracture  was  fixed  in 
place.  The  bandages  were  wound  smoothly  to  hold 
everything  secure. 

The  two  then,  with  the  utmost  precaution,  car- 
ried their  patient  up  the  bank  to  a  level  space  suita- 
ble for  a  camp,  where  he  was  laid  as  flat  as  possible. 
The  main  business  was  done,  although  still  there 
remained  certain  cuts  arid  contusions,  especially  that 
on  the  forehead,  which  had  stunned  him. 

After  the  reduction  of  the  fracture, — which  was 
actually  consummated  before  Dick  regained  his 
consciousness, — and  the  carrying  of  the  young  man 
to  the  upper  flat,  Sam  curtly  instructed  May-may- 
gwan  to  gather  balsam  for  the  dressing  of  the  va- 
rious severer  bruises.  She  obtained  the  gum,  a  lit- 
tle at  a  time,  from  a  number  of  trees.  Here  and 
there,  where  the  bark  had  cracked  or  been  abraded, 
hard-skinned  blisters  had  exuded.  These,  when 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN  137 

pricked,  yielded  a  liquid  gum,  potent  in  healing. 
While  she  was  collecting  this  in  a  quickly  fash- 
ioned birch-bark  receptacle,  Sam  made  camp. 

He  realised  fully  that  the  affair  was  one  of  many 
weeks,  if  not  of  months.  On  the  flat  tongue  over- 
looking the  river  he  cleared  a  wide  space,  and  with 
the  back  of  his  axe  he  knocked  the  hummocks  flat. 
A  score  or  so  of  sapling  poles  he  trimmed.  Three 
he  tied  together  tripod-wise,  using  for  the  purpose 
a  strip  of  the  inner  bark  of  cedar.  The  rest  he 
leaned  against  these  three.  He  postponed,  until 
later,  the  stripping  of  birch-bark  to  cover  this 
frame,  and  gave  his  attention  to  laying  a  soft  couch 
for  Dick's  convalescence.  The  foundation  he  made 
of  caribou-moss,  gathered  dry  from  the  heights; 
the  top  of  balsam  boughs  cleverly  thatched  so  that 
the  ends  curved  down  and  in,  away  from  the  recum- 
bent body.  Over  all  he  laid  what  remained  of  his 
own  half  blanket.  Above  the  bed  he  made  a  frame- 
work from  which  a  sling  would  be  hung  to  suspend 
the  injured  leg. 

All  this  consumed  not  over  twenty  minutes.  At 
the  end  of  that  time  he  glanced  up  to  meet  Dick's 
eye*. 


138  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

"Leg  broke,"  he  answered  the  inquiry  in  them. 
"That's  all." 

"That  girl—,"  began  Dick. 

"Shut  up !"  said  Sam. 

He  moved  here  and  there,  constructing,  by  means 
of  flat  stones,  a  trough  to  be  used  as  a  cooking- 
range.  At  the  edge  of  the  clearing  he  met  the  Ind- 
ian girl  returning  with  her  little  birch-bark  saucer. 

"Little  Sister,"  said  he. 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  him. 

"I  want  the  truth." 

"What  truth,  Little  Father?" 

He  looked  searchingly  into  her  eyes. 

"It  does  not  matter ;  I  have  it,"  he  replied. 

She  did  not  ask  him  further.  If  she  had  any  cu- 
riosity, she  did  not  betray  it ;  if  she  had  any  suspi- 
cion of  what  he  meant,  she  did  not  show  it. 

Sam  returned  to  where  Dick  lay. 

"Look  here,  Sam,"  said  he,  "this  comes  of * 

"Shut  up !"  said  Sam  again.  "Look  here,  you, 
you've  made  trouble  enough.  Now  you're  laid  up, 
and  you're  laid  up  for  a  good  long  while.  This 
ain't  any  ordinary  leg  break.  It  means  three 
months,  and  it  may  mean  that  you'll  never  walk 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN  1S9 

straight  again.  It's  got  to  be  treated  mighty  care- 
ful, and  you've  got  to  do  j  ust  what  I  tell  you.  You 
just  behave  yourself.  It  wasn't  anybody's  fault. 
That  girl  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  If  you  weren't 
a  great  big  fool  you'd  know  it.  We  both  got  to  take 
care  of  you.  Now  you  treat  her  decent,  and  you 
treat  me  decent.  It's  time  you  came  off." 

He  said  it  as  though  he  meant  it.  Nevertheless 
it  was  with  the  most  elaborate  tenderness  that  he, 
assisted  by  May-may-gwan,  carried  Dick  to  his  new 
quarters.  But  in  spite  of  the  utmost  care,  the  trans- 
portation was  painful.  The  young  man  was  left 
with  no  strength.  The  rest  of  the  afternoon  he 
dozed  in  a  species  of  torpor. 

Sam's  energy  toward  permanent  establishment 
did  not  relax.  He  took  a  long  tramp  in  search  of 
canoe  birches,  from  which  at  last  he  brought  back 
huge  rolls  of  thick  bark.  These  he  and  the  girl 
sewed  together  in  overlapping  seams,  using  white 
spruce-roots  for  the  purpose.  The  result  was  a 
water-tight  covering  for  the  wigwam.  A  pile  of 
firewood  >ras  the  fruit  of  two  hours'  toil.  In  the 
meantime  May-may-gwan  had  caught  some  fish 
with  the  hook  and  line  and  had  gathered  some  ber- 


140  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

ries.  She  made  Dick  a  strong  broth  of  dried  meat. 
At  evening  the  old  man  and  the  girl  ate  their  meal 
together  at  the  edge  of  the  bluff  overlooking  the 
broil  of  the  river.  They  said  little,  but  somehow  the 
meal  was  peaceful,  with  a  content  unknown  in  the 
presence  of  the  impatient  and  terrible  young  man. 


CHAPTER    FOURTEEN 

During  the  days  that  ensued  a  certain  intimacy 
sprang  up  between  Sam  Bolton  and  the  Indian  girl. 
At  first  their  talk  was  brief  and  confined  to  thr  ne- 
cessities. Then  matters  of  opinion,  disjointed, 
fragmentary,  began  to  creep  in.  Finally  the  two 
came  to  know  each  other,  less  by  what  was  actually 
said,  than  by  the  attitude  of  mind  such  confidences 
presupposed.  One  topic  they  avoided.  Sam,  for 
all  his  shrewdness,  could  not  determine  to  what  de- 
gree had  persisted  the  young  man's  initial  attrac- 
tion for  the  girl.  Of  her  devotion  there  could  be 
no  question,  but  in  how  much  it  depended  on  the 
necessity  of  the  moment  lay  the  puzzle.  Her  de- 
meanor was  inscrutable.  Yet  Sam  came  gradually 
to  trust  to  her  loyalty. 

In  the  soft,  sweet  open-air  life  the  days  passed 
stately  in  the  manner  of  figures  on  an  ancient  tapes- 
try. Certain  things  were  each  morning  to  be  done, 
»— the  dressing  of  Dick's  cuts  and  contusions  with 

Ml 


142  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

the  healing  balsam,  the  rebandaging  and  adjusting 
of  the  splints  and  steadying  buckskin  strap ;  the 
necessary  cooking  and  cleaning;  the  cutting  of 
wood ;  the  fishing  below  the  rapids ;  the  tending  of 
traps ;  the  occasional  hunting  of  larger  game ;  the 
setting  of  snares  for  rabbits.  From  certain  good 
skins  of  the  latter  May-may-gwan  was  engaged  in 
weaving  a  blanket,  braiding  the  long  strips  after  a 
fashion  of  her  own.  She  smoked  tanned  buckskin, 
and  with  it  repaired  thoroughly  both  the  men's  gar- 
ments and  her  own.  These  things  were  to  be  done, 
though  leisurely,  and  with  slow,  ruminative  pauses 
for  the  dreaming  of  forest  dreams. 

But  inside  the  wigwam  Dick  Herron  lay  helpless, 
his  hands  clenched,  his  eyes  glaring  red  with  an 
impatience  he  seemed  to  hold  his  breath  to  repress. 
Time  was  to  be  passed.  That  was  all  he  knew,  all 
he  thought  about,  all  he  cared.  He  seized  the  min- 
utes grimly  and  flung  them  behind  him.  So  ab- 
sorbed was  he  in  this,  that  he  seemed  to  give  grudg- 
ingly and  hastily  his  attention  to  anything  else. 
He  never  spoke  except  when  absolutely  necessary; 
it  almost  seemed  that  he  never  moved.  Of  Sam  he 
appeared  utterly  unconscious.  The  older  man  per- 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN  H3 

formed  the  little  services  about  him  quite  unnoticed. 
The  Indian  girl  Dick  would  not  suffer  near  him  at 
all.  Twice  he  broke  silence  for  what  might  be  called 
commentatorial  speech. 

"It'll  be  October  before  we  can  get  started,"  he 
growled  one  evening. 

"Yes,"  said  Sam. 

"You  wait  till  I  can  get  out !"  he  said  on  another 
occasion,  in  vague  threat  of  determination. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  third  week  Sam  took  his 
seat  by  the  moss  and  balsam  pallet  and  began  to  fill 
his  pipe  in  preparation  for  a  serious  talk. 

"Dick,"  said  he,  "I've  made  up  my  mind  we've 
wasted  enough  time  here." 

Herron  made  no  reply. 

"I'm  going  to  leave  you  here  and  go  to  look  ov  r 
the  other  hunting  districts  by  myself." 

Still  no  reply. 

"Well?'  demanded  Sam. 

"What  about  me?"  asked  Dick. 

"The  girl  will  take  care  of  you." 

A  long  silence  ensued.  "She'll  take  everything 
we've  got  and  get  out,"  said  Dick  at  last. 

"She  will  not !    She'd  have  done  it  before  now  " 


144  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

"She'll  quit  me  the  first  Injuns  that  come 
along." 

Sam  abandoned  the  point. 

"You  needn't  take  the  risk  unless  you  want  to. 
If  you  say  so,  I'll  wait." 

"Oh,  damn  the  risk,"  cried  Dick,  promptly. 
"Go  ahead." 

The  woodsman  smoked. 

"Sam,"  said  the  younger  man. 

"What?" 

"I  know  I'm  hard  to  get  along  with  just  now. 
Don't  mind  me.  It's  hell  to  lie  on  your  back  and 
be  able  to  do  nothing.  I've  seemed  to  hinder 
the  game  from  the  first.  Just  wait  till  I'm  up 
again !" 

"That's  all  right,  my  boy,"  replied  Sam.  "I  un- 
derstand. Don't  worry.  Just  take  it  easy.  I'll 
look  over  the  district,  so  we  won't  be  losing  any 
time.  And,  Dick,  be  decent  to  the  girl." 

"To  hell  with  the  girl,"  growled  Dick,  lapsing 
abruptly  from  his  expansive  mood.  "She  got  me 
into  this." 

Not  another  word  would  he  speak,  but  lay,  star- 
ing upward,  chewing  the  cud  of  resentment. 


CHAPTER    FOURTEEN  145 

Promptly  on  the  heels  of  his  decision  Sam  Bol- 
ton  had  a  long  talk  with  May-may-gwa'n,  then  de- 
parted carrying  a  little  pack.  It  was  useless  to 
think  now  of  the  canoe,  and  in  any  case  the  time  of 
year  favoured  cross-country  travel.  The  distances, 
thus  measured,  were  not  excessive,  and  from  the 
Indian's  descriptions,  Sam's  slow-brooding  memory 
had  etched  into  his  mind  an  accurate  map  of  the 
country. 

At  noon  the  girl  brought  Dick  his  meal.  After 
he  had  eaten  she  removed  the  few  utensils.  Then 
she  returned. 

"The  Little  Father  commanded  that  I  care  for 
your  hurt,"  she  said,  simply. 

"My  leg's  all  right  now,"  growled  Dick.  "I  can 
bandage  it  myself." 

May-may-gwan  did  not  reply,  but  left  the  tent. 
In  a  moment  she  reappeared  carrying  forked 
switches,  a  square  of  white  birch-bark,  and  a  piece 
of  charcoal. 

"Thus  it  is,"  said  she  rapidly.  "These  be  the 
leg  bones  and  this  the  bone  of  the  ankle.  This  bore 
is  broken,  so.  Thus  it  is  held  in  place  by  the  skill  jf 
the  Little  Father.  Thus  it  is  healing,  with  stiffness 


t46  THE    SILENT   PLACES 

of  the  muscles  and  the  gristle,  so  that  always  Eagle 
eye  will  walk  like  wood,  and  never  will  he  run. 
The  Little  Father  has  told  May-may-gwan  what 
there  is  to  do.  It  is  now  the  time.  Fifteen  suns 
have  gone  since  the  hurt." 

She  spoke  simply.  Dick,  interested  in  spite  of 
himself,  stared  at  the  switches  and  the  hasty  char- 
coal sketch.  The  dead  silence  hung  for  a  full  min- 
ute. Then  the  young  man  fell  back  from  his  elbow 
with  an  enigmatical  snort.  May-may-gwan  as- 
sumed consent  and  set  to  work  on  the  simple  yet  del- 
icate manipulations,  massages,  and  flexings,  which 
persisted  in  with  due  care  lest  the  fracture  slip, 
would  ultimately  restore  the  limb  to  its  full  useful- 
ness. 

Once  a  day  she  did  this,  thrice  a  day  she  brought 
food.  The  rest  of  the  time  she  was  busy  about  her 
own  affairs;  but  never  too  occupied  to  loop  up  a 
section  of  the  tepee  covering  for  the  purpose  of 
admitting  fresh  air,  to  bring  a  cup  of  cold  water, 
to  readjust  the  sling  which  suspended  the  injured 
It  of,  or  to  perform  an  hundred  other  little  services. 
She  did  these  things  with  inscrutable  demeanour. 
As  Dick  always  accepted  them  in  silence,  she  offered 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN  1*? 

them  equally  in  silence.  No  one  could  have  guessed 
the  thoughts  that  passed  in  her  heart. 

At  the  end  of  a  week  Dick  raised  himself  sud- 
denly on  his  elbow. 

"Some  one  is  coming !"  he  exclaimed,  in  English. 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  the  girl  started  for- 
ward. Her  mouth  parted,  her  eyes  sparkled,  her 
nostrils  quivered.  Nothing  could  have  been  more 
pathetic  than  this  sudden  ecstatic  delight,  as  sud- 
denly extinguished  when  she  perceived  that  the  ex- 
clamation was  involuntary  and  not  addressed  to  her. 
In  a  moment  Sam  Bolton  appeared,  striding  out  of 
the  forest. 

He  unslung  his  little  pack,  leaned  his  rifle  against 
a  tree,  consigned  to  May-may-gwan  a  dog  he  was 
leading,  and  approached  the  wigwam.  He  seemed 
in  high  good  humour. 

"Well,  how  goes  it?"  he  greeted. 

But  at  the  sight  of  the  man  striding  in  his 
strength  Dick's  dull  anger  had  fallen  on  him  again 
like  a  blanket.  Unreasonably,  as  he  himself  well 
knew,  he  was  irritated.  Something  held  him  back 
from  the  utterance  of  the  hearty  words  of  greeting 
that  had  been  on  his  tongue,  A  dull,  apathetic  in« 


U8  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

difference  to  everything  except  the  chains  of  his 

imprisonment  enveloped  his  spirit. 

"All  right,"  he  answered,  grudgingly. 

Sam  deftly  unwound  the  bandages,  examining 
closely  the  condition  of  the  foot. 

"Bone's  in  place  all  right,"  he  commented.  "Has 
the  girl  rubbed  it  and  moved  it  every  day  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Any  pain  to  amount  to  anything  now  ?" 

"No." 

"Pretty  dull  work  lying  on  your  back  all  day 
with  nothing  to  do." 

"Yes." 

"Took  in  the  country  to  southeast.  Didn't  find 
anything.  Picked  up  a  pretty  good  dog.  Part 
'husky.' " 

Dick  had  no  comment  to  make  on  this.  Sam 
found  May-may-gwan  making  friends  with  the 
dog,  feeding  him  little  scraps,  patting  his  head, 
above  all  wrinkling  the  end  of  his  pointed  nose  in 
one  hand  and  batting  it  softly  with  the  palm  of  the 
other.  This  caused  the  dog  to  sneeze  violently,  but 
he  exhibited  every  symptom  of  enjoyment.  The 
animal  had  long,  coarse  hair,  sharp  ears  set  alertly 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN  149 

forward,  a  bushy  tail,  and  an  expression  of  great 
but  fierce  intelligence. 

"Eagle-eye  does  well,"  said  the  woodsman. 

"I  have  done  as  the  Little  Father  commanded," 
she  replied,  and  arose  to  cook  the  meal. 

The  next  day  Sam  constructed  a  pair  of  crutches 
well  padded  with  moss. 

"Listen,  Little  Sister,"  said  he.  "Now  I  go  on  a 
long  journey,  perhaps  fifteen  suns,  perhaps  one 
moon.  At  the  end  of  six  suns  more  Jibibanisi  may 
rise.  His  leg  must  be  slung,  thus.  Never  must  he 
touch  the  foot  to  the  ground,  even  for  an  instant. 
You  must  see  to  it.  I  will  tell  him,  also.  Each  day 
he  must  sit  in  the  sun.  He  must  do  something. 
When  snow  falls  we  will  again  take  the  long  trail. 
Prepare  all  things  for  it.  Give  Eagle-eye  mate- 
rials to  work  with." 

To  Dick  he  spoke  with  like  directness. 

"I'm  off  again,  Dick,"  said  he.  "There's  no 
help  for  it ;  you've  got  to  lay  up  there  for  a  week 
yet.  Then  the  girl  will  show  you  how  to  tie  your 
leg  out  of  the  way,  and  you  can  move  on  crutches. 
If  you  rest  any  weight  on  that  foot  before  I  get 
back,  you'll  be  stiff  for  life.  I  shouldn't  advise  you 


150  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

to  take  any  chances.  Suit  yourself;  but  I  should 
try  to  do  no  more  than  get  out  in  the  sun.  You 
won't  be  good  for  much  before  snow.  You  can  get 
things  organised.  She'll  bring  you  the  stuff  to 
work  on,  and  will  help.  So  long." 

"Good-by,"  muttered  Dick.  He  breathed  hard, 
fully  occupied  with  the  thought  of  his  helplessness, 
with  blind,  unappeasable  rage  against  the  chance 
that  had  crippled  him,  with  bitter  and  useless  ques- 
tionings as  to  why  such  a  moment  should  have  been 
selected  for  the  one  accident  of  his  young  life.  Out' 
side  he  could  hear  the  crackle  of  the  little  fire,  the 
unusual  sound  of  the  Indian  girl's  voice  as  she 
talked  low  to  the  dog,  the  animal's  whine  of  appre- 
ciation and  content.  Suddenly  he  felt  the  need  of 
companionship,  the  weariness  of  his  own  unending, 
revolving  thoughts. 

"Hi!"  he  called  aloud. 

May-may-gwan  almost  instantly  appeared  in  the 
entrance,  a  scarcely  concealed  hope  shining  in  her 
eyes.  This  was  the  first  time  she  had  been  sum- 
moned. 

"Ninny-moosh — the  dog,"  commanded  Dick, 
coldly. 


CHAPTER    FOURTEEN  151 

She  turned  to  whistle  the  beast.  He  came  at  once, 
already  friends  with  this  human  being,  who  under- 
stood him. 

"Come  here,  old  fellow,"  coaxed  Dick,  holding 
out  his  hand. 

But  the  half-wild  animal  was  in  doubt.  He  re- 
quired assurance  of  this  man's  intentions.  Dick 
gave  himself  to  the  task  of  supplying  it.  For  the 
first  time  in  a  month  his  face  cleared  of  its  discon- 
tent. The  old,  winning  boyishness  returned.  May- 
may-gwan,  standing  forgotten,  in  the  entrance, 
watched  in  silence.  Dick  coaxed  knowingly,  lead- 
ing, by  the  very  force  of  persuasion,  until  the  dog 
finally  permitted  a  single  pat  of  his  sharp  nose. 
The  young  man  smoothly  and  cautiously  persisted, 
his  face  alight  with  interest.  Finally  he  conquered. 
The  animal  allowed  his  ears  to  be  rubbed,  his  nose 
to  be  batted.  At  length,  well  content,  he  lay  down 
by  his  new  master  within  reach  of  the  hand  that 
rested  caressingly  on  his  head.  The  Indian  girl 
stole  softly  away.  At  the  fireside  she  seated  herself 
and  gazed  in  the  coals.  Presently  the  marvel  of 
two  tears  welled  in  her  eyes.  She  blinked  them 
away  and  set  about  supper,* 


CHAPTER   FIFTEEN 

Whether  it  was  that  the  prospect  of  getting  about, 
or  the  diversion  of  the  dog  was  responsible  for  the 
change,  Dick's  cheerfulness  markedly  increased  in 
the  next  few  days.  For  hours  he  would  fool  with 
the  animal,  whom  he  had  named  Billy,  after  a  hunt- 
ing companion,  teaching  him  to  shake  hands,  to 
speak,  to  wrinkle  his  nose  in  a  doggy  grin,  to  lie 
down  at  command,  and  all  the  other  tricks  useful 
and  ornamental  that  go  to  make  up  the  fanciest 
kind  of  a  dog  education.  The  mistakes  and  suc- 
cesses of  his  new  friend  seemed  to  amuse  him  hugely. 
Often  from  the  tent  burst  the  sounds  of  inextin- 
guishable mirth.  May-may-gwan,  peeping,  saw  the 
young  man  as  she  had  first  seen  him,  clear-eyed, 
laughing,  the  wrinkles  of  humour  deepening  about 
his  eyes,  his  white  teeth  flashing,  his  brow  un- 
troubled. Three  days  she  hovered  thus  on  the  outer 
edge  of  the  renewed  good  feeling,  then  timidly  es- 
sayed an  advance. 

152 


CHAPTER   FIFTEEN  153 

Unobtrusive,  she  slipped  inside  the  teepee's  flap. 
The  dog  sat  on  his  haunches,  his  head  to  one  side  in 
expectation. 

"The  dog  is  a  good  dog,"  she  said,  her  breath 
choking  her. 

Apparently  the  young  man  had  not  heard. 

"It  will  be  well  to  name  the  dog  that  he  may 
answer  to  his  name,"  she  ventured  again. 

Dick,  abruptly  gripped  by  the  incomprehensible 
obsession,  uneasy  as  at  something  of  which  he  only 
waited  the  passing,  resentful  because  of  the  discom- 
fort this  caused  him,  unable  to  break  through  the 
artificial  restraint  that  enveloped  his  spirit,  lifted 
his  eyes  suddenly,  dead  and  lifeless,  to  hers. 

"It  is  time  to  lift  the  net,"  he  said. 

The  girl  made  no  more  advances.  She  moved 
almost  automatically  about  her  accustomed  tasks, 
preparing  the  materials  for  what  remained  to  be 
done. 

Promptly  on  the  seventh  day,  with  much  prep- 
aration and  precaution,  Dick  moved.  He  had  now 
to  suffer  the  girl's  assistance.  When  he  first  stood 
upright,  he  was  at  once  attacked  by  a  severe  dir 
ziness,  which  would  have  caused  a  fall  had  not  May- 


154  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

may-gwan  steadied  him.  With  difficulty  he  hob- 
bled to  a  seat  outside.  Even  his  arms  seemed  to 
him  pithless.  He  sank  to  his  place  hard-breathed, 
exhausted.  It  was  some  minutes  before  he  could 
look  about  him  calmly. 

The  first  object  to  catch  his  eye  was  the  cardinal 
red  of  a  moose-maple,  like  a  spot  of  blood  on  velvet- 
green.  And  thus  he  knew  that  September,  or  the 
Many-caribou-in-the-woods  Moon,  was  close  at 
hand. 

"Hi!"  he  called. 

May-may-gwan  came  as  before,  but  without  the 
look  of  expectation  in  her  eyes. 

"Bring  me  wood  of  mashkigiwateg,  wood  of  tam- 
arack," he  commanded;  "bring  me  mokamon,  the 
knife,  and  tschi-mokamon,  the  large  knife;  bring 
the  hide  of  ah-tek,  the  caribou." 

"These  things  are  ready,  at  hand,"  she  replied. 

With  the  couteau  croche,  the  crooked  knife  of 
the  North,  Dick  laboured  slowly,  fashioning  with 
care  the  long  tamarack  strips.  He  was  exceedingly 
particular  as  to  the  selection  of  the  wood,  as  to  the 
taper  of  the  pieces.  At  last  one  was  finished  to  his 
satisfaction.  Slowly  then  he  fashioned  it,  mould- 


CHAPTER    FIFTEEN  155 

mg  the  green  wood,  steaming  it  to  make  it  more 
plastic,  until  at  last  the  ends  lay  side  by  side,  and 
the  loop  of  wood  bowed  above  in  the  shape  of  a 
snow-shoe  raquette.  The  exact  shape  Dick  still  fur- 
ther assured  by  means  of  two  cross-pieces.  These 
were  bound  in  place  by  the  strips  of  the  caribou-skin 
rawhide  wet  in  warm  water,  which  was  also  used  to 
bind  together  the  two  ends.  The  whole  was  then 
laid  aside  to  dry. 

Thus  in  the  next  few  days  Dick  fashioned  the 
frame  of  six  snow-shoes.  He  adhered  closely  to  the 
Ojibway  pattern.  In  these  woods  it  was  not  neces- 
sary to  have  recourse  to  the  round,  broad  shape  of 
the  rough  bowlder-hills,  nor  was  it  possible  to  use 
the  long,  swift  shoe  of  the  open  plains.  After  a 
while  he  heated  red  the  steel  end  of  his  rifle  cleaning- 
rod  and  bored  holes  for  the  webbing.  This  also  he 
made  of  caribou  rawhide,  for  caribou  shrinks  when 
wet,  thus  tightening  the  lacing  where  other  mate- 
rials would  stretch.  Above  and  below  the  cross- 
pieces  he  put  in  a  very  fine  weaving;  between  them 
a  coarser,  that  the  loose  snow  might  readily  sift 
through.  Each  strand  he  tested  again  and  again ; 
each  knot  he  made  doubly  sure. 


156  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

Nor  must  it  be  imagined  that  he  did  these  things 
alone.  May-may-gwan  helped  him,  not  only  by 
fetching  for  him  the  tools  and  materials,  of  which 
he  stood  in  need,  but  also  in  the  bending,  binding, 
and  webbing  itself.  Under  the  soft  light  of  the 
trees,  bathed  in  the  aroma  of  fresh  shavings  and  the 
hundred  natural  odours  of  the  forest,  it  was  ex- 
ceedingly pleasant  accurately  to  accomplish  the 
light  skilled  labour.  But  between  these  human  be- 
ings, alone  in  a  vast  wilderness,  was  no  communi- 
cation outside  the  necessities  of  the  moment.  Thus 
in  a  little  the  three  pairs  of  snow-shoes,  complete 
even  to  the  buckskin  foot-loops,  hung  from  the 
sheltered  branch  of  a  spruce. 

"Bring  now  to  me,"  said  the  young  man,  "poles 
of  the  hickory,  logs  of  gijik,  the  cedar;  bring  me 
wigwass,  the  birch-bark,  and  the  rawhide  of  moos- 
wa,  the  moose." 

"These  things  are  at  hand,"  repeated  May-may- 
gwan. 

Then  ensued  days  of  severe  toil.  Dick  was,  of 
course,  unable  to  handle  the  axe,  so  the  girl  had  to 
do  it  under  his  direction.  The  affair  was  of  wedges 
with  which  to  split  along  the  grain ;  of  repeated  at- 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN  157 

tempts  until  the  resulting  strips  were  true  and  with- 
out warp;  of  steaming  and  tying  to  the  proper 
curve,  and,  finally,  of  binding  together  strongly 
with  the  tough  babiche  into  the  shape  of  the  dog- 
sledge.  This,  too,  was  suspended  at  last  beneath 
the  sheltering  spruce. 

"Bring  me  now,"  said  Dick,  "rawhide  of  mooswa, 
the  moose,  rawhide  of  ah-tek,  the  caribou,  watab, 
the  root  for  sewing." 

Seated  opposite  each  other,  heads  bent  over  the 
task,  they  made  the  dog-harness,  strong,  serviceable, 
not  to  be  worn  out,  with  the  collar,  the  broad  buck- 
skin strap  over  the  back,  the  heavy  traces.  Four  of 
them  they  made,  for  Sam  would  undoubtedly  com- 
plete the  team,  and  these,  too,  they  hung  out  of 
reach  in  the  spruce-tree. 

Now  Sam  returned  from  his  longest  trip,  empty 
of  information,  but  light  of  spirit,  for  he  had  suc- 
ceeded by  his  simple  shrewdness  in  avoiding  all  sus- 
picion. He  brought  with  him  another  "husky" 
dog,  and  a  strong  animal  like  a  Newfoundland; 
also  some  tea  and  tobacco,  and  an  axe-blade.  This 
latter  would  be  especially  valuable.  In  the  extreme 
cold  steel  becomes  like  glass.  The  work  done  earned 


158  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

his  approval,  but  he  paused  only  a  day,  and  was  off 

again. 

From  the  inside  of  the  teepee  hung  many  skins 
of  the  northern  hare  which  May-may-gwan  had 
captured  and  tanned  while  Dick  was  still  on  his 
back.  The  woven  blanket  was  finished.  Now  she 
lined  the  woollen  blankets  with  these  hare-skins, 
over  an  hundred  to  each.  Nothing  warmer  could 
be  imagined.  Of  caribou  skin,  tanned  with  the  hair 
on,  she  and  Dick  fashioned  jackets  with  peaked 
hoods,  which,  when  not  in  use,  would  hang  down 
behind.  The  opening  about  the  face  was  sewn  with 
bushy  fox's  tails,  and  a  puckering-string  threaded 
through  so  that  the  wearer  could  completely  pro- 
tect his  features.  Mittens  they  made  from  pelts  of 
the  muskrat.  Moccasins  were  cut  extra  large  and 
high,  and  lined  with  fur  of  the  hare.  Heavy  raw- 
hide dog-whips  and  buckskin  gun-cases  completed 
the  simple  winter  outfit. 

But  still  there  remained  the  question  of  suste- 
nance. Game  would  be  scarce  and  uncertain  in  the 
cold  months. 

It  was  now  seven  weeks  since  Dick's  accident. 
Cautiously,  with  many  pauses,  he  began  to  rest 


CHAPTER   FIFTEEN  159 

weight  on  the  injured  foot.  Thanks  to  the  treat- 
ment of  massage  and  manipulation,  the  joint  was 
but  little  stiffened.  Each  day  it  gained  in  strength. 
Shortly  Dick  was  able  to  hobble  some  little  distance, 
always  with  the  aid  of  a  staff,  always  needfully. 
As  yet  he  was  far  from  the  enjoyment  of  full  free- 
dom of  movement,  but  by  expenditure  of  time  and 
perseverance  he  was  able  to  hunt  in  a  slow,  patient 
manner.  The  runways  where  the  caribou  came  to 
drink  late  in  the  evening,  a  cautious  float  down- 
stream as  far  as  the  first  rapids,  or  even  a  plain 
sitting  on  a  log  in  the  hope  that  game  would  chance 
to  feed  within  range — these  methods  persisted  in 
day  after  day  brought  in  a  fair  quantity  of 
meat. 

Of  the  meat  they  made  some  jerky  for  present 
consumption  by  the  dogs,  and,  of  course,  they  ate 
fresh  as  much  as  they  needed.  But  most  went  into 
pemmican.  The  fat  was  all  cut  away,  the  lean 
sliced  thin  and  dried  in  the  sun.  The  result  they 
pounded  fine,  and  mixed  with  melted  fat  and  the 
marrow,  which,  in  turn,  was  compressed  while  warm 
into  air-tight  little  bags.  A  quantity  of  meat  went 
into  surprisingly  little  pemmican.  The  bags  were 


160  THE   SILENT   PLACES 

piled  on  a  long-legged  scaffolding  out  of  the  reach 

of  the  dogs  and  wild  animals. 

The  new  husky  and  Billy  had  promptly  come  to 
teeth,  but  Billy  had  held  his  own,  much  to  Dick 
Herron's  satisfaction.  The  larger  animal  was  a 
bitch,  so  now  all  dwelt  together  in  amity.  During 
the  still  hunt  they  were  kept  tied  in  camp,  but  the 
rest  of  the  time  they  prowled  about.  Never,  how- 
ever, were  they  permitted  to  leave  the  clearing,  for 
that  would  frighten  the  game.  At  evening  they  sat 
in  an  expectant  row,  awaiting  the  orderly  distribu- 
tion of  their  evening  meal.  Somehow  they  added 
much  to  the  man-feel  of  the  camp.  With  their 
coming  the  atmosphere  of  men  as  opposed  to  the 
atmosphere  of  the  wilderness  had  strengthened.  On 
this  side  was  the  human  habitation,  busy  at  its  own 
affairs,  creating  about  itself  a  definite  something 
in  the  forest,  unknown  before,  preparing  quietly 
and  efficiently  its  weapons  of  offence  and  defence, 
all  complete  in  its  fires  and  shelters  and  industries 
and  domestic  animals.  On  the  other,  formidable, 
mysterious,  vast,  were  slowly  crystallising,  without 
disturbance,  without  display,  the  mighty  opposing 
forces.  In  the  clarified  air  of  the  first  autumn 


CHAPTER    FIFTEEN  161 

frosts  this  antagonism  seemed  fairly  to  saturate  the 
stately  moving  days.  It  was  as  yet  only  potential, 
but  the  potentialities  were  swelling,  ever  swelling 
toward  the  break  of  an  actual  conflict. 


CHAPTER    SIXTEEN 

Now  the  leaves  ripened  and  fell,  and  the  frost 
crisped  them.  Suddenly  the  forest  was  still.  The 
great,  brooding  silence,  composed  of  a  thousand 
lesser  woods  voices,  flowed  away  like  a  vapour  to  be 
succeeded  by  a  fragile,  deathly  suspension  of  sound. 
Dead  leaves  depended  motionless  from  the  trees. 
The  air  hung  inert.  A  soft  sunlight  lay  enervated 
across  the  world. 

In  the  silence  had  been  a  vast,  holy  mystery  of 
greater  purpose  and  life ;  in  the  stillness  was  a  men- 
ace. It  became  the  instant  of  poise  before  the  break 
of  something  gigantic. 

And  always  across  it  were  rising  strange  rust- 
lings that  might  mean  great  things  or  little,  but 
whose  significance  was  always  in  doubt.  Suddenly 
the  man  patching  by  the  runway  would  hear  a 
mighty  scrirrying  of  dead  leaves,  a  scampering,  a 
tumult  of  hurrying  noises,  the  abruptness  of  whose 
inception  tightened  his  nerves  and  set  galloping  his 
169 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN  16* 

heart.  Then,  with  equal  abruptness,  they  ceased, 
The  delicate  and  fragile  stillness  settled  down. 

In  all  the  forest  thus  diverse  affairs  seemed  to  be 
carried  on — fearfully,  in  sudden,  noisy  dashes,  as 
a  man  under  fire  would  dodge  from  one  cover  to  an- 
other. Every  creature  advertised  in  the  leaves  hia 
presence.  Danger  lurked  to  this,  its  advantage. 
Even  the  man,  taking  his  necessary  footsteps,  was 
abashed  at  the  disproportionate  and  unusual  effects 
of  his  movements.  It  was  as  though  a  retiring  nat- 
ure were  to  be  accompanied  at  every  step  through 
a  crowded  drawing-room  by  the  jingling  of  bells. 
Always  the  instinct  was  to  pause  in  order  that  the 
row  might  die  away,  that  the  man  might  shrink  to 
his  accustomed  unobtrusiveness.  And  instanta- 
neously, without  the  grace  of  even  a  little  transit- 
ional echo,  the  stillness  fell,  crowding  so  closely  on 
the  heels  of  the  man's  presence  that  almost  he  could 
feel  the  breath  of  whatever  it  represented. 

Occasionally  two  red  squirrels  would  descend 
from  the  spruce-trees  to  chase  each  other  madly. 
Then,  indeed,  did  the  spirit  of  autumn  seem  to  be 
outraged.  The  racket  came  to  be  an  insult.  Al- 
ways the  ear  expected  its  discontinuance,  until 


164  THE    SILENT   PLACES 

finally  the  persistence  ground  on  the  nerves  like  the 
barking  of  a  dog  at  night.  At  last  it  was  an  in- 
decency, an  orgy  of  unholy  revel,  a  profanation,  a 
provocative  to  anger  of  the  inscrutable  woods  god. 
Then  stillness  again  with  the  abruptness  of  a  sword- 
cut. 

Always  the  forest  seemed  to  be  the  same ;  and  yet 
somehow  in  a  manner  not  to  be  defined  a  subtle 
change  was  taking  place  in  the  wilderness.  Noth- 
ing definite  could  be  instanced.  Each  morning  of 
that  Indian  Bummer  the  skies  were  as  soft,  the  sun 
as  grateful,  the  leaves  as  gorgeous  in  their  blazon- 
ment,  yet  each  morning  an  infinitesimal  something 
that  had  been  there  the  day  before  was  lacking, 
and  for  it  an  infinitesimal  something  had  been 
substituted.  The  change  from  hour  to  hour  was 
not  perceptible;  from  week  to  week  it  was.  The 
stillness  grew  in  portent ;  the  forest  creatures  moved 
more  furtively.  Like  growth,  rather  than  chem- 
ical change,  the  wilderness  was  turning  to  iron. 
With  this  hardening  it  became  more  formidable 
and  menacing.  No  longer  aloof  in  nirvanic  calm, 
awakened  it  drew  ne&r  its  enemies,  alert,  cunning, 
circumspect,  ready  to  strike. 


CHAPTER    SIXTEEN  163 

Each  morning  a  thin  film  of  ice  was  to  be  seen 
along  the  edges  of  the  slack  water.  Heavy,  black 
frosts  whitened  the  shadows  and  nipped  the  unac- 
customed fingers  early  in  the  day.  The  sun  was 
swinging  to  the  south,  lengthening  the  night  hours. 
Whitefish  were  running  in  the  river. 

These  last  the  man  and  the  girl  caught  in  great 
numbers,  and  smoked  and  piled  on  long-legged  scaf- 
folds. They  were  intended  as  winter  food  for  the 
dogs,  and  would  constitute  a  great  part  of  what 
would  be  taken  along  when  the  journey  should 
commence. 

Dick  began  to  walk  without  his  crutches,  a  very 
little  at  a  time,  grimly,  all  his  old  objectless  anger 
returned  when  the  extent  of  his  disability  was  thus 
brought  home  to  him.  But  always  with  persistence 
came  improvement.  Each  attempt  brought  its  re- 
ward in  strengthened  muscles,  freer  joints,  greater 
confidence.  At  last  it  could  be  no  longer  doubted 
that  by  the  Indian's  Whitefish  Moon  he  would  be  as 
good  as  ever.  The  discovery,  by  some  queer  con- 
trariness of  the  man's  disposition,  was  avoided  as 
long  as  possible,  and  finally  but  grudgingly  ad- 
mitted. Yet  when  at  last  Dick  confessed  to  him- 


166  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

self  that  his  complete  recovery  was  come,  his  mood 
suddenly  changed.  The  old  necessity  for  blind, 
unreasoning  patience  seemed  at  an  end.  He  could 
perceive  light  ahead,  and  so  in  the  absence  of  any 
further  need  for  taut  spiritual  nerves,  he  relaxed 
the  strain  and  strode  on  more  easily.  He  played 
more  with  the  dogs — of  which  still  his  favourite  was 
Billy;  occasionally  he  burst  into  little  snatches  of 
song,  and  the  sound  of  his  whistling  was  merry  in 
the  air.  At  length  he  paused  abruptly  in  his  work 
to  fix  his  quizzical,  narrow  gaze  on  the  Indian 
girl. 

"Come,  Little  Sister,"  said  he,  "let  us  lift  the 
nets." 

She  looked  up  at  him,  a  warm  glow  leaping  to 
her  face.  This  was  the  first  time  he  had  addressed 
her  by  the  customary  diminutive  of  friendship  since 
they  had  both  been  members  of  the  Indian  camp  on 
the  Missinaibie. 

They  lifted  the  net  together,  and  half-filled  the 
canoe  with  the  shining  fish.  Dick  bore  himself  with 
the  careless  good  humour  of  his  earlier  manner. 
The  greater  part  of  the  time  he  seemed  unconscious 
of  his  companion's  presence,  but  genuinely  uncon- 


CHAPTER    SIXTEEN  1«7 

scious,  not  with  the  deliberate  affront  of  a  pretend- 
ed indifference.  Under  even  this  negative  good 
treatment  the  girl  expanded  with  an  almost  luxu- 
riant gratitude.  Her  face  lost  its  stoical  mask  of 
imperturbability,  and  much  of  her  former  arch 
beauty  returned.  The  young  man  was  blind  to  these 
things,  for  he  was  in  reality  profoundly  indifferent 
to  the  girl,  and  his  abrupt  change  of  manner  could 
in  no  way  be  ascribed  to  any  change  in  his  feeling 
for  her.  It  was  merely  the  reflex  of  his  inner  mood, 
and  that  sprang  solely  from  joy  over  the  permis- 
sion he  had  given  himself  again  to  contemplate  tak- 
ing the  Long  Trail. 

But  Sam  Bolton,  returning  that  very  day  from 
his  own  long  journey,  saw  at  once  the  alteration  in 
May-may-gwan,  and  was  troubled  over  it.  He 
came  into  camp  by  the  river  way  where  the  moss 
and  spruce-needles  silenced  his  footsteps,  so  he 
approached  unnoticed.  The  girl  bent  over  the 
fire.  A  strong  glow  from  the  flames  showed 
the  stronger  glow  illuminating  her  face  from 
within.  She  hummed  softly  a  song  of  the  Ojibway 
language : 


168                THE    SILENT    PLACES 
"  Mong-o  doog-win 
Nin  dinaindoon " 


" Loons  tving  I  thought  it  wot 
In  the  distance  shining. 
But  it  was  my  lover's  paddle 
In  the  distance  shining." 

Then  she  looked  up  and  saw  him. 

"Little  Father!"  she  cried,  pleased. 

At  the  same  moment  Dick  caught  sight  of  the 
new-comer  and  hobbled  out  of  the  wigwam. 

"Hello,  you  old  snoozer!"  he  shouted.  "We  be- 
gan to  think  you  weren't  going  to  show  up  at  all. 
Look  at  what  we've  done.  I  believe  you've  been 
lying  out  in  the  woods  just  to  dodge  work. 
Where'd  you  steal  that  dog?" 

"Hello,  Dick,"  replied  Sam,  unslinging  his 
pack.  "I'm  tired.  Tell  her  to  rustle  grub." 

He  leaned  back  against  a  cedar,  half-closing  his 
eyes,  but  nevertheless  keenly  alert.  The  changed 
atmosphere  of  the  camp  disturbed  him.  Although 
he  had  not  realised  it  before,  he  preferred  Dick's  old 
uncompromising  sulkiness. 

In  accordance  with  the  woods  custom,  little  was 
said  until  after  the  meal  was  finished  and  the  pipes 
lit.  Then  Dick  inquired : 


CHAPTER    SIXTEEN  169 

;jWell,  where  you  been  this  time,  and  what  did 
you  find?" 

Sa*a  replied  briefly  as  to  his  journey,  making  it 
dear  that  he  had  now  covered  all  the  hunting  dis- 
tricts of  this  region  with  the  single  exception  of  one 
beyond  the  Ken6gami.  He  had  discovered  noth- 
ing ;  he  was  absolutely  sure  that  nothing  was  to  be 
discovered. 

"I  didn't  go  entirely  by  what  the  Injuns  told 
me,"  he  said,  "but  I  looked  at  the  signs  along  the 
trapping  routes  and  the  trapping  camps  to  see  how 
many  had  been  at  it,  and  I'm  sure  the  number  tal- 
lies with  the  reg'lar  Injun  hunters.  I  picked  up 
that  dog  over  to  Leftf oot  Lake.  Come  here,  pup !" 

The  animal  slouched  forward,  his  head  hanging, 
the  rims  of  his  eyes  blood  red  as  he  turned  them  up 
to  his  master.  He  was  a  powerful  beast,  black  and 
tan,  with  a  quaintly  wrinkled,  anxious  countenance 
and  long,  pendent  ears. 

"Strong,"  commented  Dick,  "but  queer-looking. 
He'll  have  trouble  keeping  warm  with  that  short 
coat." 

"He's  wintered  here  already,"  replied  Sam,  in- 
differently. "Go  lie  down !" 


170  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

The  dog  slouched  slowly  back,  his  heary  head 
and  ears  swinging  to  each  step,  to  where  May- 
may-gwan  was  keeping  his  peace  with  the  other 
animals. 

"Now  for  that  Kenogami  country,"  went  on 
Sam;  "it's  two  weeks  from  here  by  dogs,  and  it's 
our  last  chance  in  this  country.  I  ain't  dared  ask  too 
many  questions,  of  course,  so  I  don't  know  anything 
about  the  men  who're  hunting  there.  There's  four 
families,  and  one  other.  He's  alone;  I  got  that 
much  out  of  the  last  place  I  stopped.  We  got  to 
wait  here  for  snow.  If  we  don't  raise  anything 
there,  we'd  better  get  over  toward  the  Nipissing 
country." 

"All  right,"  said  Dick. 

The  older  man  began  to  ask  minutely  concerning 
the  equipment,  provisions,  and  dog  food. 

"It's  all  right  as  long  as  we  can  take  it  easy  and 
hunt,"  advised  Sam,  gradually  approaching  the 
subject  that  was  really  troubling  him,  "and  it's  all 
right  if  we  can  surprise  this  Jingoss  or  ambush  him 
when  we  find  him.  But  suppose  he  catches  wind  of 
us  and  skips,  what  then?  It'll  be  a  mighty  pretty 
race,  my  son,  and  a  hard  one.  We'll  have  to  fly 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN  171 

light  and  hard,  ana  we'll  need  every  pound  of  grub 
we  can  scrape." 

The  young  man's  eyes  darkened  and  his  nostrils 
expanded  with  the  excitement  of  this  thought. 

"Just  let's  strike  his  trail !"  he  exclaimed. 

"That's  all  right,"  agreed  the  woodsman,  his 
eyes  narrowing ;  "but  how  about  the  girl,  then  ?" 

But  Dick  exhibited  no  uneasiness.  He  merely 
grinned  broadly. 

"Well,  what  about  the  girl?  That's  what  I've 
been  telling  you.  Strikes  me  that's  one  of  your 
troubles." 

Half -satisfied,  the  veteran  fell  silent.  Shortly 
after  he  made  an  opportunity  to  speak  to  May- 
may-gwjin. 

"All  is  well,  Little  Sister?"  he  inquired. 

"All  is  well,"  she  replied;  "we  have  fini&hed  the 
parkas,  the  sledges,  the  snow-shoes,  the  blankets, 
and  we  have  made  much  food." 

"And  Jibiwanisi?" 

"His  foot  is  nearly  healed.  Yesterday  he  walked 
to  the  Big  Pool  and  back.  To-day,  even  this  after- 
noon, Little  Father,  the  Black  Spirit  left  him  so 
that  he  has  been  gay." 


171  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

Convinced  that  the  restored  good  feeling  was  the 
result  rather  of  Dick's  volatile  nature  than  of  too 
good  an  understanding,  the  old  man  left  the  sub- 
ject. 

"Little  Sister,"  he  went  on,  "soon  we  are  going 
to  take  the  winter  trail.  It  may  be  that  we  will  have 
to  travel  rapidly.  It  may  be  that  food  will  be 
scarce.  I  think  it  best  that  you  do  not  go  with  us." 

She  looked  up  at  him. 

"These  words  I  have  expected,"  the  replied.  "I 
have  heard  the  speech  you  have  made  with  the  O jib- 
way  men  you  have  met.  I  have  seen  the  prepara- 
tions you  have  made.  I  am  not  deceived.  You  and 
Jibiwdnisi  are  not  looking  for  winter  posts.  I  do 
not  know  what  it  is  you  are  after,  but  it  is  some- 
thing you  wish  to  conceal.  Since  you  have  not  told 
me,  I  know  you  wish  to  conceal  it  from  me.  I  did 
not  know  all  this  when  I  left  Haukemah  and  his 
people.  That  was  a  foolish  thing.  It  was  done, 
and  I  do  not  know  why.  But  it  was  done,  and  it 
cannot  be  undone.  I  could  not  go  back  to  the  peo- 
ple of  Haukemah  now ;  they  would  kill  me.  Where 
else  can  I  go?  I  do  not  know  where  the  Ojibways, 
my  own  people,  live." 


CHAPTER    SIXTEEN  173 

"What  do  you  expect  to  do,  if  you  stay  with 
m«?"  inquired  Sam,  curiously. 

"You  come  from  Conjuror's  House.  You  tell 
the  Indians  you  come  from  Winnipeg,  but  that  is 
not  so.  When  you  have  finished  your  affairs,  you 
will  return  to  Conjuror's  House.  There  I  can  enter 
the  household  of  some  officer." 

"But  you  cannot  take  the  winter  trail,"  objected 
Sam. 

"I  am  strong ;  I  can  take  the  winter  trail." 

"And  perhaps  we  may  have  to  journey  hard  and 
fast." 

"As  when  one  pursues  an  enemy,"  said  the  girl, 
calmly.  "Good.  I  am  fleet.  I  too  can  travel. 
And  if  it  comes  to  that,  I  will  leave  you  without 
complaint  when  I  can  no  longer  tread  your  trail." 

"But  the  food,"  objected  Sam,  still  further. 

"Consider,  Little  Father,"  said  May-may-gwaii ; 
"of  the  food  I  have  prepared  much ;  of  the  work,  1 
have  done  much.  I  have  tended  the  traps,  raised 
the  nets,  fashioned  many  things,  attended  Eagle- 
eye.  If  1  had  not  been  here,  then  you,  Little 
Father,  could  not  have  made  your  journeys.  S« 
you  kave  gained  some  time." 


174  THE  SILENT  PLACES 

"That  is  true,"  conceded  Sam. 

"  Listen,  Little  Father,  take  me  with  you.  I  will 
drive  the  dogs,  make  the  camp,  cook  the  food. 
Never  will  I  complain.  If  the  food  gets  scarce,  I 
will  not  ask  for  my  share.  That  I  promise." 

"Much  of  what  you  say  is  true,"  assented  the 
woodsman,  "  but  you  forget  you  came  to  us  of  your 
free  will  and  unwelcomed.  It  would  be  better  that 
you  go  to  Missinaibie." 

"No,"  replied  the  girl. 

"  If  you  hope  to  become  the  squaw  of  Jibiwanisi," 
said  Sam,  bluntly,  "  you  may  as  well  give  it  up." 

The  girl  said  nothing,  but  compressed  her  lips 
to  a  straight  line.  After  a  moment  she  merely 
reiterated  her  original  solution  : 

"  At  Conjuror's  House  I  know  the  people." 

"  I  will  think  of  it,"  then  concluded  Sam. 

Dick,  however,  coidd  see  no  good  in  such  an  ar- 
rangement. He  did  not  care  to  discuss  the  matter 
at  length,  but  preserved  rather  the  attitude  of  a 
man  who  has  shaken  himself  free  of  all  the  respon- 
sibility of  an  affair,  and  is  mildly  amused  at  the 
tribulations  of  another  still  involved  in  it. 

"  You'll  have  a  lot  of  trouble  dragging  a  squaw 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN  175 

all  over  the  north,"  he  advised  Sam,  critically.  "Of 
course,  we  can't  turn  her  adrift  here.  Wouldn't  do 
that  to  a  dog.  But  it  strikes  me  it  would  even  pay 
us  to  go  out  of  our  way  to  Missinaibie  to  get  rid  of 
her.  We  could  do  that." 

"Well,  I  don't  know—"  doubted  Sam.  "Of 
course " 

"Oh,  bring  her  along  if  you  want  to,"  laughed 
Dick,  "only  it's  your  funeral.  You'll  get  into 
trouble,  sure.  And  don't  say  I  didn't  tell  you." 

It  might  have  been  imagined  by  the  respective 
attitudes  of  the  two  men  that  actually  Sam  had 
been  responsible  for  the  affair  from  the  beginning. 
Finally,  laboriously,  he  decided  that  the  girl  should 
go.  She  could  be  of  assistance;  there  was  small 
likelihood  of  the  necessity  for  protracted  hasty 
travel. 

The  weather  was  getting  steadily  colder. 
Greasy-looking  clouds  drove  down  from  the  north- 
west. Heavy  winds  swept  by.  The  days  turned 
gray.  Under  the  shelter  of  trees  the  ground  froze 
into  hummocks,  which  did  not  thaw  out.  The  crisp 
leaves  which  had  made  the  forest  so  noisy  disinte- 
grated into  sodden  silence.  A  wildness  was  in  the 


176  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

air,  swooping  down  with  the  breeze,  buffeting  in 
the  little  whirlwinds  and  eddies,  rocking  back  and 
forth  in  the  tops  of  the  storm-beaten  trees.  Cold 
little  waves  lapped  against  the  thin  fringe  of  shore 
ice  that  crept  day  by  day  from  the  banks.  The 
water  itself  turned  black.  Strange  birds  swirling 
down  wind  like  leaves  uttered  weird  notes  of  mi- 
gration. The  wilderness  hardened  to  steel. 

The  inmates  of  the  little  camp  waited.  Each 
morning  Dick  was  early  afoot  searching  the  signs 
of  the  weather;  examining  the  ice  that  crept 
stealthily  from  shore,  waiting  to  pounce  upon  and 
imprison  the  stream ;  speculating  on  the  chances  of 
an  early  season.  The  frost  pinched  his  bare  fingers 
severely,  but  he  did  not  mind  that.  His  leg  was  by 
now  almost  as  strong  as  ever,  and  he  was  impatient 
to  be  away,  to  leave  behind  him  this  rapid  that  had 
gained  over  him  even  a  temporary  victory.  Always 
as  the  time  approached,  his  spirits  rose.  It  would 
have  been  difficult  to  identify  this  laughing  boy 
with  the  sullen  and  terrible  man  who  had  sulked 
through  the  summer.  He  had  made  friends  with  all 
the  dogs.  Even  the  fierce  "huskies"  had  become 
tame,  and  liked  to  be  upset  and  tousled  about  and 


CHAPTER    SIXTEEN  177 

dragged  on  their  backs  growling  fierce  but  mock 
protest.  The  bitch  he  had  named  Claire ;  the  hound 
with  the  long  ears  he  had  called  Mack,  because  of  a 
fancied  and  mournful  likeness  to  MacDonald,  the 
Chief  Trader ;  the  other  "husky"  he  had  christened 
Wolf,  for  obvious  reasons;  and  there  remained,  of 
course,  the  original  Billy.  Dick  took  charge  of  the 
feeding.  At  first  he  needed  his  short,  heavy  whip 
to  preserve  order,  but  shortly  his  really  admirable 
gift  with  animals  gained  way,  and  he  had  them 
sitting  peacefully  in  a  row  awaiting  each  his 
turn. 

At  last  the  skim  ice  made  it  impossible  longer  to 
use  the  canoe  in  fishing  on  the  river.  The  craft 
was,  therefore,  suspended  bottom  up  between  two 
trees.  A  little  snow  fell  and  remained,  but  was 
speedily  swept  into  hollows.  The  temperature 
lowered.  It  became  necessary  to  assume  thicker 
garments.  Once  having  bridged  the  river  the  ice 
strengthened  rapidly.  And  then  late  one  after- 
noon, on  the  wings  of  the  northwest  wind,  came  the 
snow.  All  night  it  howled  past  the  trembling  wig- 
wam. All  the  next  day  it  swirled  and  drifted  and 
took  the  shapes  of  fantastic  monsters  leaping  in  the 


178  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

riot  of  the  storm.  Then  the  stars,  cold  and  brilliant, 
once  more  crackled  in  the  heavens.  The  wilderness 
in  a  single  twenty-four  hours  had  changed  utterly. 
Winter  had  come. 


CHAPTER    SEVENTEEN 

In  the  starlit,  bitter  cold  of  a  north  country  morn- 
ing the  three  packed  their  sledge  and  harnessed 
their  dogs.  The  rawhide  was  stubborn  with  the 
frost,  the  dogs  uneasy.  Knots  would  not  tie.  Pain 
nipped  the  fingers,  cruel  pain  that  ate  in  and  in  un- 
til it  had  exposed  to  the  shock  of  little  contacts  every 
lightened  nerve.  Each  stiff,  clumsy  movement  was 
agony.  From  time  to  time  one  of  the  three  thrust 
hand  in  mitten  to  beat  the  freezing  back.  Then  a 
new  red  torture  surged  to  the  very  finger-tips.  They 
bore  it  in  silence,  working  hastily,  knowing  that 
every  morning  of  the  long,  winter  trip  this  fearful 
hour  must  come.  Thus  each  day  the  North  would 
greet  them,  squeezing  their  fingers  in  the  cruel 
hand-clasp  of  an  antagonist  testing  their  strength. 
Over  the  supplies  and  blankets  was  drawn  the 
skin  envelope  laced  to  the  sledge.  The  last  reluc- 
tant knot  was  tied.  Billy,  the  leader  of  the  four 
dogs,  casting  an  intelligent  eye  at  his  masters,  knew 

in 


180  THE    SILENT   PLACES 

that  all  was  ready,  and  so  arose  from  his  haunches. 
Dick  twisted  his  feet  skilfully  into  the  loops  of  his 
snow-shoes.  Sam,  already  equipped,  seized  the 
heavy  dog-whip.  The  girl  took  charge  of  the  gee- 
pole  with  which  the  sledge  would  be  guided. 

"Mush !    Mush  on !"  shouted  Sam. 

The  four  dogs  leaned  into  their  collars.  The 
sledge  creaked  free  of  its  frost  anchorage  and 
moved. 

First  it  became  necessary  to  drop  from  the  eleva- 
tion to  the  river-bed.  Dick  and  May-may-gwan 
clung  desperately.  Sam  exercised  his  utmost  skill 
and  agility  to  keep  the  dogs  straight.  The  tobog- 
gan hovered  an  instant  over  the  edge  of  the  bank, 
then  plunged,  coasting  down.  Men  hung  back, 
dogs  ran  to  keep  ahead.  A  smother  of  light 
snow  settled  to  show,  in  the  dim  starlight,  the 
furrow  of  descent.  And  on  the  broad,  white 
surface  of  the  river  were  eight  spots  of  black 
which  represented  the  followers  of  the  Long 
Trail. 

Dick  shook  himself  and  stepped  ahead  of  the 
dogs. 

"Mush!     Mush  on!"  commanded  Sam  again. 


CHAPTER    SEVENTEEN  181 

Dick  ran  on  steadily  in  the  soft  snow,  swing- 
ing his  entire  weight  now  on  one  foot,  now  on 
the  other,  passing  the  snow-shoes  with  the  peculiar 
stiff  swing  of  the  ankle,  throwing  his  heel  strongly 
downward  at  each  step  in  order  to  take  advantage 
of  the  long  snow-shoe  tails'  elasticity.  At  each  step 
he  sank  deep  into  the  feathery  snow.  The  runner 
was  forced  to  lift  the  toe  of  the  shoe  sharply,  and 
the  snow  swirled  past  his  ankles  like  foam.  Behind 
him,  in  the  trail  thus  broken  and  packed  for  them, 
trotted  the  dogs,  their  noses  low,  their  jaws  hang- 
ing. Sam  drove  with  two  long-lashed  whips;  and 
May-may-gwan,  clinging  to  the  gee-pole,  guided 
the  sledge. 

In  the  absolute  and  dead  stillness  of  a  winter 
morning  before  the  dawn  the  little  train  went  like 
ghosts  in  a  mist  of  starlight.  The  strange  glim- 
mering that  seems  at  such  an  hour  to  disengage 
from  the  snow  itself  served  merely  to  establish  the 
separate  bulks  of  that  which  moved  across  it.  The 
bending  figure  of  the  man  breaking  trail,  his  head 
low,  his  body  moving  in  its  swing  with  the  regu- 
larity of  a  pendulum ;  the  four  wolf-like  dogs,  also 
bending  easily  to  what  was  not  a  great  labour,  the 


182  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

line  of  their  open  jaws  and  lolling  tongues  cut  out 
against  the  snow;  another  human  figure;  the  low, 
dark  mass  of  the  sledge ;  and  again  the  bending  fig- 
ure at  the  rear, — all  these  contrasted  in  their  half- 
blurred  uncertainty  of  outline  and  the  suggested 
motion  of  their  attitude  with  the  straight,  clear  sil- 
houette of  the  spruce-trees  against  the  sky. 

Also  the  sounds  of  their  travelling  offered  an 
analogous  contrast.  The  dull  crunch,  crunch, 
crunch  of  the  snow-shoes,  the  breathing  of  the  liv- 
ing beings,  the  glither  and  creak  of  the  sledge  came 
to  the  ear  blurred  and  confused ;  utterly  unlike  the 
cameo  stillness  of  the  winter  dawn. 

Ten  minutes  of  the  really  violent  exertion  of 
breaking  trail  warmed  Dick  through.  His  fingers 
ceased  their  protest.  Each  breath,  blowing  to  steam, 
turned  almost  immediately  to  frost.  He  threw  back 
the  hood  of  his  capote,  for  he  knew  that  should  it 
become  wet  from  the  moisture  of  his  breath,  it  would 
freeze  his  skin,  and  with  his  violent  exertions  ex- 
posure to  the  air  was  nothing.  In  a  short  time  his 
eyebrows  and  eyelashes  became  heavy  with  ice. 
Then  slowly  the  moisture  of  his  body,  working  out- 
ward through  the  wool  of  his  clothing,  frosted  on 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN  183 

the  surface,  so  that  gradually  as  time  went  on  he 
grew  to  look  more  and  more  like  a  great  white- 
furred  animal. 

The  driving  here  on  the  open  river  was  compara- 
tively easy.  Except  occasionally,  the  straight  line 
could  be  adhered  to.  When  it  became  necessary  to 
avoid  an  obstruction,  Sam  gave  the  command  loud- 
ly, addressing  Billy  as  the  lead  dog. 

"Hu,  Billy !"  he  would  cry. 

And  promptly  Billy  would  turn  to  the  right. 
Or: 

"Chac,  Billy!"  he  would  cry. 

And  Billy  would  turn  to  the  left,  with  always  ID 
oaind  the  thought  of  the  long  whip  to  recall  hit 
duty  to  man. 

Then  the  other  dogs  turned  after  him.  Claire, 
for  her  steadiness  and  sense,  had  been  made  sledge' 
dog.  Always  she  watched  sagaciously  to  pull  the 
end  of  the  sledge  strongly  away  should  the  devia- 
tion not  prove  sufficient.  Later,  in  the  woods,  when 
the  trail  should  become  difficult,  much  would  depend 
on  Claire's  good  sense. 

Now  shortly,  far  to  the  south,  the  sun  rose.  The 
gray  world  at  once  became  brilliant.  The  low  frost 


184  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

haze, — invisible  until  now,  to  be  invisible  all  the  rest 
of  the  day, — for  these  few  moments  of  the  level 
beams  worked  strange  necromancies.  The  prisms 
of  a  million  ice-drops  on  shrubs  and  trees  took  fire. 
A  bewildering  flash  and  gleam  of  jewels  caught  the 
eye  in  every  direction.  And,  suspended  in  the  air, 
like  the  shimmer  of  a  soft  and  delicate  veiling,  wav- 
ered and  floated  a  mist  of  vapour,  tinted  with  rose 
and  lilac,  with  amethyst  and  saffron. 

As  always  on  the  Long  Trail,  our  travellers'  spir- 
its rose  with  the  sun.  Dick  lengthened  his  stride, 
the  dogs  leaned  to  their  collars,  Sam  threw  back  his 
shoulders,  the  girl  swung  the  sledge  tail  with  added 
vim.  Now  everything  was  warm  and  bright  and 
beautiful.  It  was  yet  too  early  in  the  day  for 
fatigue,  and  the  first  discomforts  had  passed. 

But  in  a  few  moments  Dick  stopped.  The  sledge 
at  once  came  to  a  halt.  They  rested. 

At  the  end  of  ten  minutes  Sam  stepped  to  the 
front,  and  Dick  took  the  dog-whip.  The  young 
man's  muscles,  still  weak  from  their  long  inaction, 
ached  cruelly.  Especially  was  this  true  of  the  liga- 
ments at  the  groin — used  in  lifting  high  the  knee, 
— and  the  long  muscles  along  the  front  of  the  shin- 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN  185 

bone, — by  which  the  toe  of  the  snow-shoe  was  ele- 
vated. He  found  himself  very  glad  to  drop  behind 
into  the  beaten  trail. 

The  sun  by  now  had  climbed  well  above  the  hori- 
zon, but  did  little  to  mitigate  the  cold.  As  long  as 
the  violent  movement  was  maintained  a  warm  and 
grateful  glow  followed  the  circulation,  but  a  pause, 
even  of  a  few  moments,  brought  the  shivers.  And 
always  the  feathery,  clogging  snow, — offering 
slight  resistance,  it  is  true,  but  opposing  that  alight 
resistance  continuously,  so  that  at  last  it  amounted 
to  a  great  deal.  A  step  taken  meant  no  advance 
toward  easier  steps.  The  treadmill  of  forest  travel, 
changed  only  in  outward  form,  again  claimed  their 
dogged  patience. 

At  noon  they  paused  in  the  shelter  of  the  woods. 
The  dogs  were  anchored  by  the  simple  expedient  of 
turning  the  sledge  on  its  side.  A  little  fire  of  dried 
spruce  and  pine  branches  speedily  melted  snow  in 
the  kettle,  and  that  as  speedily  boiled  tea.  Caribou 
steak,  thawed,  then  cooked  over  the  blaze,  com- 
pleted the  meal.  As  soon  as  it  was  swallowed  they 
were  off  again  before  the  cold  could  mount  them. 

The  inspiration  and  uplift  of  the  morning  were 


J86  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

gone ;  the  sun  was  sinking  to  a  colder  and  colder  set- 
ting. All  the  vital  forces  of  the  world  were  running 
down.  A  lethargy  seized  our  travellers.  An  effort 
was  required  merely  to  contemplate  treading  the 
mill  during  the  three  remaining  hours  of  daylight, 
a  greater  effort  to  accomplish  the  first  step  of  it, 
and  an  infinite  series  of  ever-increasing  efforts  to 
make  the  successive  steps  of  that  long  afternoon. 
The  mind  became  weary.  And  now  the  North  in- 
creased by  ever  so  little  the  pressure  against  them, 
sharpening  the  cold  by  a  trifle ;  adding  a  few  flakes' 
weight  to  the  snow  they  must  lift  on  their  shoes; 
throwing  into  the  vista  before  them  a  deeper,  chill- 
ier tone  of  gray  discouragement;  intensifying  the 
loneliness ;  giving  to  the  winds  of  desolation  a  voice. 
Well  the  great  antagonist  knew  she  could  not  thus 
stop  these  men,  but  so,  little  by  little,  she  ground 
them  down,  wore  away  the  excess  of  their  vitality, 
reduced  them  to  grim  plodding,  so  that  at  the  mo- 
ment she  would  hold  them  weakened  to  her  pur- 
poses. They  made  no  sign,  for  they  were  of  the 
great  men  of  the  earth,  but  they  bent  to  the  fa- 
miliar touch  of  many  little  fingers  pushing 
them  back. 


CHAPTER    SEVENTEEN  18? 

Now  the  sun  did  indeed  swing  to  the  horizon,  so 
that  there  remained  scant  daylight. 

"Chac,  Billy !"  cried  Sam,  who  again  wielded  the 
whip. 

Slowly,  wearily,  the  little  party  turned  aside.  In 
the  grove  of  spruce  the  snow  clung  thick  and  heavy. 
A  cold  blackness  enveloped  them  like  a  damp  blan- 
ket. Wind,  dying  with  the  sun,  shook  the  snow 
from  the  trees  and  cried  mournfully  in  theii  tops. 
Gray  settled  on  the  landscape,  palpable,  real,  extin- 
guishing the  world.  It  was  the  second  dreadful 
hour  of  the  day,  the  hour  when  the  man,  weary,  dis- 
couraged, the  sweat  of  travel  freezing  on  him,  must 
still  address  himself  to  the  task  of  making  a  home 
in  the  wilderness. 

Again  the  sledge  was  turned  on  its  side.  Dick 
and  May-may-gwan  removed  their  snow-shoes,  and, 
using  them  as  shovels,  began  vigorously  to  scrape 
and  dig  away  the  snow.  Sam  unstrapped  the  axe 
and  went  for  firewood.  He  cut  it  with  little  tenta- 
tive strokes,  for  in  the  intense  cold  the  steel  was  al- 
most as  brittle  as  glass. 

Now  a  square  of  ground  flanked  by  high  snow 
walls  was  laid  bare.  The  two  then  stripped  boughs 


188  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

of  balsam  with  which  to  carpet  all  one  end  of  it. 
They  unharnessed  the  dogs,  and  laid  the  sledge 
across  one  end  of  the  clear  space,  covering  it  with 
branches  in  order  to  keep  the  dogs  from  gnawing 
the  moose-skin  wrapper.  It  was  already  ^uite  dark. 

But  at  this  point  Sam  returned  with  fuel.  At 
once  the  three  set  about  laying  a  fire  nearly  across 
the  end  of  the  cleared  space  opposite  the  sledge. 
In  a  moment  a  tiny  flame  cast  the  first  wavering 
shadows  against  the  darkness.  Silently  the  inimical 
forces  of  the  long  day  withdrew. 

Shortly  the  camp  was  completed.  Before  the 
fire,  impaled  on  sticks,  hung  the  frozen  whitefish 
thawing  out  for  the  dogs.  Each  animal  was  to  re- 
ceive two.  The  kettle  boiled.  Meat  sizzled  over  the 
coals.  A  piece  of  ice,  whittled  to  a  point,  dripped 
drinking-water  like  a  faucet.  The  snow-bank  ram- 
parts were  pink  in  the  glow.  They  reflected  appre- 
ciably the  heat  of  the  fire,  though  they  were  not  in 
the  least  affected  by  it,  and  remained  flaky  to  the 
touch.  A  comfortable  sizzling  and  frying  and  bub- 
bling and  snapping  filled  the  little  dome  of  firelight, 
beyond  which  was  the  wilderness.  Weary  with  an 
immense  fatigue  the  three  lay  back  waiting  for  their 


CHAPTER    SEVENTEEN  189 

supper  to  be  done.  The  dogs,  too,  waited  patiently 
just  at  the  edge  of  the  heat,  their  bushy  tails  cov- 
ering the  bottoms  of  their  feet  and  their  noses,  as 
nature  intended.  Only  Mack,  the  hound,  lacking 
this  protection,  but  hardened  to  greater  exposure, 
lay  flat  on  his  side,  his  paws  extended  to  the  blaze. 
They  all  rested  quietly,  worn  out,  apparently 
without  the  energy  to  move  a  single  hair.  But 
now  Dick,  rising,  took  down  from  its  switch  the 
first  of  the  whitefish.  Instantly  every  »iog  was  on 
his  feet.  Their  eyes  glared  yellow,  their  jaws 
slavered,  they  leaped  toward  the  man  who  held  the 
fish  high  above  his  head  and  kicked  energetically 
at  the  struggling  animals.  Sam  took  the  dog 
whip  to  help.  Between  them  the  food  was  dis- 
tributed, two  fish  to  a  dog.  The  beasts  took  each 
his  share  to  a  place  remote  from  the  others  and 
bolted  it  hastily,  returning  at  once  on  the  chance 
of  a  further  distribution,  or  the  opportunity  to  steal 
from  his  companions.  After  a  little  more  roaming 
about,  growling  and  suspicious  sniffing,  they  again 
settled  down  one  by  one  to  slumber. 

Almost    immediately    after    supper    the    three 
turned  in,  first  removing  and  hanging  before  the 


190  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

fire  the  duffel  and  moccasins  worn  during  the  day. 
These  were  replaced  by  larger  and  warmer  sleep 
moccasins  lined  with  fur.  The  warm-lined  cover- 
ings they  pulled  up  over  and  around  them  com- 
pletely, to  envelop  even  their  heads.  This  ar- 
rangement is  comfortable  only  after  long  use  has 
accustomed  one  to  the  half-suffocation;  but  it  is 
necessary,  not  only  to  preserve  the  warmth  of  the 
body,  but  also  to  protect  the  countenance  from 
freezing.  At  once  they  fell  into  exhausted  sleep. 
As  though  they  had  awaited  a  signal,  the  dogs 
arose  and  proceeded  to  investigate  the  camp. 
Nothing  was  too  trivial  to  escape  their  attention. 
Billy  found  a  tiny  bit  of  cooked  meat.  Promptly 
he  was  called  on  to  protect  his  discovery  against 
a  vigorous  onslaught  from  the  hound  and  the  other 
husky.  Over  and  over  the  fighting  dogs  rolled, 
snorting  and  biting,  awakening  the  echoes  of  the 
forest,  even  trampling  the  sleepers,  who,  neverthe- 
less, did  not  stir.  In  the  mean  time,  Claire,  unin- 
volved,  devoured  the  morsel.  The  trouble  grad- 
ually died  down.  One  after  another  the  animals 
dug  themselves  holes  in  the  snow,  where  they 
curled  up,  their  bushy  tails  over  their  noses  and 


CHAPTER    SEVENTEEN  191 

their  fore  paws.  Only  Mack,  the  hound  with  the 
wrinkled  face  and  long,  pendent  ears,  unendowed 
with  such  protection,  crept  craftily  between  his 
sleeping  masters. 

Gradually  the  fire  died  to  coals,  then  filmed  to 
ashes.  Hand  in  hand  the  cold  and  the  darkness 
invaded  the  camp.  As  the  firelight  faded,  objects 
showed  dimly,  growing  ever  more  distinct  through 
the  dying  glow — the  snow-laden  bushes,  the 
pointed  trees  against  a  steel  sky  of  stars.  The 
little,  artificial  tumult  of  homely  sound  by  which 
these  men  had  created  for  the  moment  an  illusion 
of  life  sank  down  under  the  unceasing  pressure  of 
the  verities,  so  that  the  wilderness  again  flowed 
unobstructed  through  the  forest  aisles.  With  a 
last  pop  of  coals  the  faint  noise  of  the  fire  ceased. 
Then  an  even  fainter  noise  slowly  became  audible, 
a  crackling  undertone  as  of  silken  banners  rust" 
ling.  And  at  once,  splendid,  barbaric,  the  mighty 
orgy  of  the  winter-time  aurora  began. 


CHAPTER    EIGHTEEN 

In  a  day  or  two  Dick  was  attacked  by  the  fearful 
mal  de  raquttte,  which  tortures  into  knots  the  mus- 
cles of  the  leg  below  the  knee ;  and  by  cramps  that 
doubled  him  up  in  his  blankets.  This  was  the  di- 
rect result  of  his  previous  inaction.  He  moved  only 
with  pain;  and  yet,  b}  the  stern  north-country 
code,  he  made  no  complaint  and  moved  as  rapidly  as 
possible.  Each  time  he  raised  his  knee  a  sharp  pain 
stabbed  his  groin,  as  though  he  had  been  stuck  by 
a  penknife;  each  time  he  bent  his  ankle  in  the  re- 
cover the  mal  de  raquette  twisted  his  calves,  and 
stretched  his  ankle  tendons  until  he  felt  that  his 
very  feet  were  insecurely  attached  and  would  drop 
off.  During  the  evening  he  sat  quiet,  but  after  he 
had  fallen  asleep  from  the  mere  exhaustion  of  the 
day's  toil,  he  doubled  up,  straightened  out,  groaned 
aloud,  and  spoke  rapidly  in  the  strained  voice  of 
one  who  suffers.  Often  he  would  strip  his  legs  by 

the  fire,  in  order  that  Sam  could  twist  a  cleft  stick 
193 


CHAPTER    EIGHTEEN  193 

vigorously  about  the  affected  muscles ;  which  is  the 
Indian  treatment.  As  for  the  cramps,  they  took 
care  of  themselves.  The  day's  journey  was  neces- 
sarily shortened  until  he  had  partly  recovered,  but 
even  after  the  worst  was  over,  a  long  tramp  al- 
ways brought  a  slight  recurrence. 

For  the  space  of  nearly  ten  weeks  these  people 
travelled  thus  in  the  region  of  the  Kabinikagam. 
Sometimes  they  made  long  marches ;  sometimes  they 
camped  for  the  hunting ;  sometimes  the  great,  fierce 
storms  of  the  north  drove  them  to  shelter,  snowed 
them  under,  and  passed  on  shrieking.  The  wind 
opposed  them.  At  first  of  little  account,  its  very 
insistence  gave  it  value.  Always  the  stinging  snow 
whirling  into  the  face;  always  the  eyes  watering 
and  smarting;  always  the  unyielding  opposition 
against  which  to  bend  the  head ;  always  the  rush  of 
sound  in  the  ears, — a  distraction  against  which  the 
senses  had  to  struggle  before  they  could  take  their 
needed  cognisance  of  trail  and  of  game.  An  un- 
easiness was  abroad  with  the  wind,  an  uneasiness 
that  infected  the  men,  the  dogs,  the  forest  creatures, 
the  very  insentient  trees  themselves.  It  racked 
the  nerves.  In  it  the  inimical  Spirit  of  the  North 


194  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

seemed  to  find  its  plainest  symbol;  though  many 

difficulties  she  cast  in  the  way  were  greater  to  be 

overcome. 

Ever  the  days  grew  shorter.  The  sun  swung 
above  the  horizon,  low  to  the  south,  and  dipped 
back  as  though  pulled  by  some  invisible  string. 
Slanting  through  the  trees  it  gave  little  cheer  and 
no  warmth.  Early  in  the  afternoon  it  sank,  sil- 
houetting the  pointed  firs,  casting  across  the  snow 
long,  crimson  shadows,  which  faded  into  gray.  It 
was  replaced  by  a  moon,  chill  and  remote,  dead  as 
the  white  world  on  which  it  looked. 

In  the  great  frost  continually  the  trees  were 
splitting  with  loud,  sudden  reports.  The  cold  had 
long  since  squeezed  the  last  drops  of  moisture  from 
the  atmosphere.  It  was  metallic,  clear,  hard  as  ice, 
brilliant  as  the  stars,  compressed  with  the  freezing. 
The  moon,  the  stars,  the  earth,  the  very  heavens 
glistened  like  polished  steel.  Frost  lay  on  the  land 
thick  as  a  coverlid.  It  hid  the  east  like  clouds  of 
smoke.  Snow  remained  unmelted  two  feet  from  the 
camp-fire. 

And  the  fire  alone  saved  these  people  from  the 
enemy.  If  Sam  stooped  for  a  moment  to  adjust  his 


CHAPTER    EIGHTEEN  195 

•now-shoe  strap,  he  straightened  his  back  with  a 
certain  reluctance, — already  the  benumbing  prelim- 
inary to  freezing  had  begun.  If  Dick,  flipping  his 
mitten  from  his  hand  to  light  his  pipe,  did  not  catch 
the  fire  at  the  second  tug,  he  had  to  resume  the  mit- 
ten and  beat  the  circulation  into  his  hand  before  re- 
newing the  attempt,  lest  the  ends  of  his  fingers  be- 
come frosted.  Movement,  always  and  incessantly, 
movement  alone  could  keep  going  the  vital  forces 
on  these  few  coldest  days  until  the  fire  had  been 
built  to  fight  back  the  white  death. 

It  was  the  land  of  ghosts.  Except  for  the  few 
hours  at  midday  these  people  moved  in  the  gloom 
and  shadow  of  a  nether  world.  The  long  twilight 
was  succeeded  by  longer  night,  with  its  burnished 
stars,  its  dead  moon,  its  unearthly  aurora.  On  the 
fresh  snow  were  the  tracks  of  creatures,  but  in  the 
flesh  they  glided  almost  invisible.  The  ptarmigan's 
bead  eye  alone  betrayed  him,  he  had  no  outline. 
The  ermine's  black  tip  was  the  only  indication  of 
his  presence.  Even  the  larger  animals, — the  cari- 
bou, the  moose — had  either  turned  a  dull  gray,  or 
were  so  rimed  by  the  frost  as  to  have  lost  all  ap- 
pearance of  solidity.  It  was  ever  a  surprise  to  find 


196  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

these  phantoms  bleeding  red,  to  discover  that  their 
flesh  would  resist  the  knife.  During  the  strife  of 
the  heavy  northwest  storms  one  side  of  each  tree 
fiad  become  more  or  less  plastered  with  snow,  so  that 
even  their  dark  trunks  flashed  mysteriously  into 
and  out  of  view.  In  the  entire  world  of  the  great 
white  silence  the  only  solid,  enduring,  palpable 
reality  was  the  tiny  sledge  train  crawling  with  infi- 
nite patience  across  its  vastness. 

White  space,  a  feeling  of  littleness  and  impo- 
tence, twilight  gloom,  burnished  night,  bitter  cold, 
unreality,  phantasmagoria,  ghosts  like  those  which 
surged  about  ^Eneas,  and  finally  clogging,  white 
silence, — these  were  the  simple  but  dreadful  ele- 
ments of  that  journey  which  lasted,  without  event, 
from  the  middle  of  November  until  the  latter  part 
of  January. 

Never  in  all  that  time  was  an  hour  of  real  com- 
fort to  be  anticipated.  The  labours  of  the  day 
were  succeeded  by  the  shiverings  of  the  night.  Ex- 
haustion alone  induced  sleep;  and  the  racking  chill 
of  early  morning  alone  broke  it.  The  invariable 
diet  was  meat,  tea,  and  pemmican.  Besides  the  res- 
olution required  for  the  day's  journey  and  th« 


CHAPTER    EIGHTEEN  157 

night's  discomfort,  was  the  mental  anxiety  as  to 
whether  or  not  game  would  be  found.  Dis- 
couragements were  many.  Sometimes  with  full  an- 
ticipation of  a  good  day's  run,  they  would  consume 
hours  in  painfully  dragging  the  sledge  over  unex- 
pected obstructions.  At  such  times  Wolf,  always 
of  an  evil  disposition,  made  trouble.  Thus  be- 
sides the  resolution  of  spirit  necessary  to  the  work, 
there  had  to  be  pumped  up  a  surplusage  to  meet 
the  demands  of  difficult  dog-driving.  And  when, 
as  often  happened,  a  band  of  the  gray  wolves 
would  flank  them  within  smelling  distance,  the  ex- 
asperation of  it  became  almost  unbearable.  Time 
and  again  Sam  had  almost  forcibly  to  restrain 
Dick  from  using  the  butt  of  his  whip  on  Wolf's 
head. 

Nor  could  they  treat  themselves  in  the  weary  suc- 
cession of  days  to  an  occasional  visit  with  human 
beings.  During  the  course  of  their  journey  they 
investigated  in  turn  three  of  the  four  trapping  dis- 
tricts of  the  Kabinikagam.  But  Sam's  judgment 
advised  that  they  should  not  show  themselves  to  the 
trappers.  He  argued  that  no  sane  man  would  look 
for  winter  posts  at  this  time  of  year,  and  it  might 


198  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

be  difficult  otherwise  to  explain  the  presence  of  white 
men.  It  was  quite  easy  to  read  by  the  signs  how 
many  people  were  to  be  accounted  for  in  each  dis- 
trict, and  then  it  was  equally  easy  to  ambush  in  a 
tree,  during  the  rounds  for  examination  of  the 
traps,  until  their  identities  had  all  been  established. 
It  was  necessary  to  climb  a  tree  in  order  to  escape 
discovery  by  the  trapper's  dog.  Of  course  the  trail 
of  our  travellers  would  be  found  by  the  trapper, 
but  unless  he  actually  saw  them  he  would  most  prob- 
ably conclude  them  to  be  Indians  moving  to  the 
west.  Accordingly  Dick  made  long  detours  to  in- 
tercept the  trappers,  and  spent  many  cold  hours 
waiting  for  them  to  pass,  while  Sam  and  the  girl 
hunted  in  another  direction  to  replenish  the  sup- 
plies. In  this  manner  the  frequenters  of  these  dis- 
tricts had  been  struck  from  the  list.  No  one  of  them 
was  Jingoss.  There  remained  but  one  section,  and 
that  the  most  northerly.  If  that  failed,  then  there 
was  nothing  to  do  but  to  retrace  the  long,  weary 
journey  up  the  Kabinikdgam,  past  the  rapids  where 
Dick  had  hurt  himself,  over  the  portage,  down  the 
Mattawishgina,  across  the  Missinaibie,  on  which 
they  had  started  their  travels,  to  the  country  of  the 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN  199 

Nipissing.  Discussing  this  possibility  one  rest-time, 
Dick  said: 

"We'd  be  right  back  where  we  started.  I  think 
it  would  pay  us  to  go  down  to  Brunswick  House 
and  get  a  new  outfit.  It's  only  about  a  week  up  the 
Missinaibie."  Then,  led  by  inevitable  association 
of  ideas,  "Wonder  if  those  Crees  had  a  good  time? 
And  I  wonder  if  they've  knocked  our  friend  Ah-tek, 
the  Chippewa,  on  the  head  yet  ?  He  was  a  bad  cus- 
tomer." 

"You  better  hope  they  have,"  replied  Sam. 
"He's  got  it  in  for  you." 

Dick  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  laughed  easily. 

"That's  all  right,"  insisted  the  older  man;  "just 
the  same,  an  Injun  never  forgets  and  never  fails  to 
get  even.  You  may  think  he's  forgotten,  but  he's 
layin'  for  you  just  the  same,"  and  then,  because 
they  happened  to  be  resting  in  the  lea  of  a  bank  and 
the  sun  was  at  its  highest  for  the  day,  Sam  went  on 
to  detail  one  example  after  another  from  his  wide 
observation  of  the  tenacity  with  which  an  Indian 
pursues  an  obligation,  whether  of  gratitude  or  en- 
mity. "They'll  travel  a  thousand  miles  to  get 
even,"  he  concluded.  "They'll  drop  the  most  im- 


20ft  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

portant  business  they  got,  if  they  think  they  have 
a  good  chance  to  make  a  killing.  He'll  run  up 
against  you  some  day,  my  son,  and  then  you'll  have 
it  out." 

"All  right,"  agreed  Dick,  "I'll  take  care  of  him. 
Perhaps  I'd  better  get  organised;  he  may  be  lay- 
ing for  me  around  the  next  bend." 

"I  don't  know  what  made  us  talk  about  it,"  said 
Sam,  "but  funnier  things  have  happened  to  me." 

Dick,  with  mock  solicitude,  loosened  his  knife. 

But  Sam  had  suddenly  become  grave.  "I  believe 
in  those  things,"  he  said,  a  little  fearfully.  "They 
save  a  man  sometimes,  and  sometimes  they  help  him 
to  get  what  he  wants.  It's  a  Chippewa  we're  after ; 
it's  a  Chippewa  we've  been  talkin'  about.  They's 
something  in  it." 

"I  don't  know  what  you're  driving  at,"  said 
Dick. 

"I  don't  know,"  confessed  Sam,  "but  I  have  a 
kind  of  a  hunch  we  won't  have  to  go  back  to  the 
Nipissing."  He  looked  gropingly  about,  without 
seeing,  in  the  manner  of  an  old  man. 

"I  hope  your  hunch  is  a  good  one,"  replied  Dick. 
"Well,  mush  on!" 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN  201 

The  little  cavalcade  had  made  barely  a  dozen 
steps  in  advance  when  Sam,  who  was  leading,  came 
to  a  dead  halt. 

"Well,  what  do  you  make  of  that  ?"  he  asked. 

Across  the  way  lay  the  trunk  of  a  fallen  tree.  It 
had  been  entirely  covered  with  snow,  whose  line  ran 
clear  and  unbroken  its  entire  length  except  at  one 
point,  where  it  dipped  to  a  shallow  notch. 

"Well,  what  do  you  make  of  that?"  Sam  in- 
quired again. 

"What?"  asked  Dick. 

Sam  pointed  to  the  shallow  depression  in  the  snow 
covering  the  prostrate  tree-trunk. 


CHAPTER    NINETEEN 

Dick  looked  at  his  companion  a  little  bewildered. 

"Why,  you  must  know  as  well  as  I  do,"  he  said, 
"somebody  stepped  on  top  of  that  log  with  snow- 
shoes,  and  it's  snowed  since." 

"Yes,  but  who?"  insisted  Sam. 

"The  trapper  in  this  district,  of  course." 

"Sure ;  and  let  me  tell  you  this, — that  trapper  is 
the  man  we're  after.  That's  his  trail." 

"How  do  you  know  ?" 

"I'm  sure.    I've  got  a  hunch." 

Dick  looked  sceptical,  then  impressed.  After  all, 
you  never  could  tell  what  a  man  might  not  learn  out 
in  the  Silent  Places,  and  the  old  woodsman  had 
grown  gray  among  woods  secrets. 

"We'll  follow  the  trail  and  find  his  camp,"  pur- 
sued Sam. 

"You  ain't  going  to  ambush  him?"  inquired 
Dick. 

"What's  the  use?    He's  the  last  man  we  have  to 
202 


CHAPTER  NINETEEN  203 

tend  to  in  this  district,  anyway.  Even  if  it 
shouldn't  be  Jingoss,  we  don't  care  if  he  sees  us. 
We'll  tell  him  we're  travelling  from  York  to  Win- 
nipeg. It  must  be  pretty  near  on  the  direct  line 
from  here." 

"All  right,"  said  Dick. 

They  set  themselves  to  following  the  trail.  As 
the  only  persistences  of  it  through  the  last  storm 
were  to  be  found  where  the  snow-shoes  had  left  deep 
notches  on  the  fallen  timber,  this  was  not  an  easy 
matter.  After  a  time  the  affair  was  simplified  by 
the  dogs.  Dick  had  been  breaking  trail,  but  paused 
a  moment  to  tie  his  shoe.  The  team  floundered 
ahead.  After  a  moment  it  discovered  the  half- 
packed  snow  of  the  old  trail  a  foot  below  the  newer 
surface,  and,  finding  it  easier  travel,  held  to  it.  Be- 
tween the  partial  success  at  this,  and  an  occasional 
indication  on  the  tops  of  fallen  trees,  the  woodsmen 
managed  to  keep  the  direction  of  the  fore-runner's 
travel. 

Suddenly  Dick  stopped  short  in  his  tracks. 

"Look  there !"  he  exclaimed. 

Before  them  was  a  place  where  a  man  had 
camped  for  the  night. 


204  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

"He's  travelling!"  cried  Sam. 

This  exploded  the  theory  that  the  trail  had  been 
made  by  the  Indian  to  whom  the  trapping  rights 
of  the  district  belonged.  At  once  the  two  men 
began  to  spy  here  and  there  eagerly,  trying  to 
reconstruct  from  the  meagre  vestiges  of  occupa- 
tion who  the  camper  had  been  and  what  he  had 
been  doing. 

The  condition  of  the  fire  corroborated  what  the 
condition  of  the  trail  had  indicated.  Probably  the 
man  had  passed  about  three  days  ago.  The  nature 
of  the  fire  proclaimed  him  an  Indian,  for  it  was 
small  and  round,  where  a  white  man's  is  long  and 
hot.  He  had  no  dogs ;  therefore  his  j  ourney  was 
short,  for,  necessarily,  he  was  carrying  what  he 
needed  on  his  back.  Neither  on  the  route  nor  here 
in  camp  were  any  indications  that  he  had  carried 
or  was  examining  traps ;  so  the  conclusion  was  that 
this  trip  was  not  merely  one  of  the  long  circles  a 
trapper  sometimes  makes  about  the  limits  of  his 
domain.  What,  then,  was  the  errand  of  a  single 
man,  travelling  light  and  fast  in  the  dead  of 
winter? 

"It's  the  man  we're  after,"  said  Sam,  with  con- 


CHAPTER  NINETEEN  205 

viction.  "He's  either  taken  the  alarm,  or  he's  visit- 
ing." 

"Look,"  called  the  girl  from  beneath  the  wide 
branches  of  a  spruce. 

They  went.  Beneath  a  lower  limb,  whose  fan 
had  protected  it  from  the  falling  snow,  was  the  sin- 
gle clear  print  of  a  snow-shoe. 

"Hah!"  cried  Sam,  in  delight,  and  fell  on  his 
knees  to  examine  it.  At  the  first  glance  he  uttered 
another  exclamation  of  pleasure,  for,  though  the 
shoe  had  been  of  the  Ojibway  pattern,  in  certain 
modifications  it  suggested  a  more  northerly  origin. 
The  toes  had  been  craftily  upturned,  the  tails  short- 
ened, the  webbing  more  closely  woven. 

"It's  Ojibway,"  induced  Sam,  over  his  shoulder, 
"but  the  man  who  made  it  has  lived  among  the 
Crees.  That  fits  Jingoss.  Dick,  it's  the  man  we're 
after!" 

It  was  by  now  almost  noon.  They  boiled  tea  at 
the  old  camp  site,  and  tightened  their  belts  for  a 
stern  chase. 

That  afternoon  the  head  wind  opposed  them,  ex- 
asperating, tireless  in  its  resistance,  never  lulling 
for  a  single  instant.  At  the  moment  it  seemed  more 


206  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

than  could  be  borne.  Near  one  o'clock  it  did  them 
a  great  despite,  for  at  that  hour  the  trail  came  to 
a  broad  and  wide  lake.  There  the  snow  had  fallen, 
and  the  wind  had  drifted  it  so  that  the  surface  of 
the  ice  was  white  and  smooth  as  paper.  The  faint 
trail  led  accurately  to  the  bank — and  was  oblit- 
erated. 

Nothing  remained  but  to  circle  the  shores  to 
right  and  to  left  until  the  place  of  egress  was  dis- 
covered. This  meant  long  work  and  careful  work, 
for  the  lake  was  of  considerable  size.  It  meant 
that  the  afternoon  would  go,  and  perhaps  the  day 
following,  while  the  man  whose  footsteps  they  were 
following  would  be  drawing  steadily  away. 

It  was  agreed  that  May-may-gwan  should  re- 
main with  the  sledge,  that  Dick  should  circle  to  the 
right,  and  Sam  to  the  left,  and  that  all  three  should 
watch  each  other  carefully  for  a  signal  of  discov- 
ery. 

But  now  Sam  happened  to  glance  at  Mack,  the 
wrinkle-nosed  hound.  The  sledge  had  been  pulled 
a  short  distance  out  on  the  ice.  Mack,  alternately 
whining  and  sniffing,  was  trying  to  induce  his  com- 
rades to  turn  slanting  to  the  left. 


CHAPTER    NINETEEN  207 

"What's  the  matter  with  that  dog?"  he  inquired 
on  a  sudden. 

"Smells  something;  what's  the  difference?  Let's 
get  a  move  on  us,"  replied  Dick,  carelessly. 

"Hold  on,"  ordered  Sam. 

He  rapidly  changed  the  dog-harness  in  order  to 
put  Mack  in  the  lead. 

"Mush!    Mush  on!"  he  commanded. 

Immediately  the  hound,  his  nose  low,  uttered  a 
deep,  bell-like  note  and  struck  on  the  diagonal  across 
the  lake. 

"Come  on,"  said  Sam ;  "he's  got  it." 

Across  the  white  waste  of  the  lake,  against  the 
bite  of  the  unobstructed  wind,  under  the  shelter  of 
the  bank  opposite  they  ran  at  slightly  accelerated 
speed,  then  without  pause  into  the  forest  on  the 
other  side. 

"Look,"  said  the  older  woodsman,  pointing  ahead 
to  a  fallen  trunk.  It  was  the  trail. 

"That  was  handy,"  commented  Dick,  and 
promptly  forgot  about  it.  But  Sam  treasured  the 
incident  for  the  future. 

And  then,  just  before  two  o'clock,  the  wind  did 
them  a  great  service.  Down  the  long,  straight  lines 


20*  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

of  its  flight  came  distinctly  the  creak  of  snow-shoes. 
Evidently  the  traveller,  whoever  he  might  be,  was 
retracing  his  steps. 

At  once  Sam  overturned  the  sledge,  thus  an- 
choring the  dogs,  and  Dick  ran  ahead  to  con- 
ceal himself.  May-may-gw&n  offered  a  sugges- 
tion. 

"The  dogs  may  bark  too  soon,"  said  she. 

Instantly  Sam  was  at  work  binding  fast  their 
jaws  with  buckskin  thongs.  The  girl  assisted  him. 
When  the  task  was  finished  he  ran  forward  to  join 
Dick,  hidden  in  the  bushes. 

Eight  months  of  toil  focussed  in  the  moment. 
The  faint  creaking  of  the  shoes  came  ever  louder 
down  the  wind.  Once  it  paused.  Dick  caught  his 
breath.  Had  the  traveller  discovered  anything  sus- 
picious? He  glanced  behind  him. 

"Where's  the  girl?"  he  hissed  between  his  teeth. 
"Damn  her,  she's  warned  him!" 

But  almost  with  Sam's  reply  the  creaking  began 
again,  and  after  an  instant  of  indetermination  con- 
tinued its  course. 

Then  suddenly  the  woodsmen,  with  a  simulta- 
neous movement,  raised  their  rifles,  and  with  equal 


CHAPTER    NINETEEN  209 

vmanimity  lowered  them,  gasping  with  astonish- 
ment. Dick's  enemy,  Ah-tek,  the  renegade  Chip- 
pewa  of  Haukemah's  band  on  the  Missinaibie, 
stepped  from  the  concealment  of  the  bushes. 


CHAPTER   TWENTY 

Of  the  three  thtj  Indian  was  the  first  to  recover. 

"Bo*  jou',  bo'  jou',"  said  he,  calmly. 

Sam  collected  himself  to  a  reply.  Dick  said  noth- 
ing, but  fell  behind,  with  his  rifle  across  his  arm. 
All  marched  on  in  silence  to  where  lay  the  dog- 
sledge,  guarded  by  May-may-gwan.  The  Chippe- 
wa's  keen  eyes  took  in  every  detail  of  the  scene,  the 
overturning  of  the  sledge,  the  muzzling  of  the  dogs, 
the  general  nature  of  the  equipment.  If  he  made 
any  deductions,  he  gave  no  sign,  nor  did  he  evince 
any  further  astonishment  at  finding  these  men  so 
far  north  at  such  a  time  of  year.  Only,  when  he 
thought  himself  unobserved,  he  cast  a  glance  of  pe- 
culiar intelligence  at  the  girl,  who,  after  a  mo- 
ment's hesitation,  returned  it. 

The  occasion  was  one  of  elaborate  courtesy.  Sara 
ordered  tea  boiled,  and  offered  his  tobacco.  Over 
the  fire  he  ventured  a  more  direct  inquiry  than  hii? 

customary  policy  would  have  advised. 
010 


CHAPTER  TWENTY  *I1 

"My  brother  is  a  long  journey  from  the  Missi- 
naibie." 

The  Chippewa  assented. 

"Haukemah,  then,  hunts  these  districts." 

The  Chippewa  replied  no. 

"My  brother  has  left  Haukemah." 

Again  the  Chippewa  denied,  but  after  enjoying 
for  a  moment  the  baffling  of  the  old  man's  inten- 
tions, he  volunteered  information. 

"The  trapper  of  thi  district  is  my  brother.  I 
have  visited  him." 

"It  was  a  short  visit  for  so  long  a  journey.  The 
trail  is  but  three  days  old." 

Ah-tek  assented  gravely.  Evidently  he  cared 
very  little  whether  or  not  his  explanation  was  ac- 
cepted. 

"How  many  days  to  Winnipeg?"  asked  Sam. 

"I  have  never  been  there,"  replied  the  Indian. 

"We  have  summered  in  the  region  of  the  Missi- 
naibie,"  proffered  Sam.  "Now  we  go  to  Winni- 
peg." 

The  Indian's  inscrutable  countenance  gave  no 
indication  as  to  whether  or  not  he  believed  this. 
After  a  moment  be  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  pipe 


*1*  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

and  arose,  casting  another  sharp  glance  at  May- 
may-gwa'n.  She  had  been  busy  at  the  sledge.  Now 
she  approached,  carrying  simply  her  own  blankets 
and  clothing. 

"This  man,"  said  she  to  the  two,  "is  of  my  people. 
He  returns  to  them.  I  go  with  him." 

The  Chippewa  twisted  his  feet  into  his  snow- 
shoes,  nodded  to  the  white  men,  and  swung  away  on 
the  back  trail  in  the  direction  whence  our  travellers 
had  come.  The  girl,  without  more  leave-taking, 
followed  close  at  his  back.  For  an  instant  the 
crunch  of  shoes  splintered  the  frosty  air.  Then 
they  rounded  a  bend.  Silence  fell  swift  as  a  hawk. 

"Well,  I'll  be  damned!"  ejaculated  Dick  at  last. 
"Do  you  think  he  was  really  up  here  visiting?" 

"No,  of  course  not,"  replied  Sam.    "Don't  you 

"Then  he  came  after  the  girl?" 

"Good  God,  nor  answered  Sam.     "He " 

"Then  he  was  after  me,"  interrupted  Dick  again 
with  growing  excitement.  "Why  didn't  you  let  me 
shoot  him,  Sam " 

"Will  you  shut  up  and  listen  to  me?"  demanded 
the  old  man,  impatiently.  "If  he'd  wanted  you, 


CHAPTER  TWENTY  SIS 

he'd  have  got  you  when  you  were  hurt  last  summer ; 
and  if  he'd  wanted  the  girl,  he'd  have  got  her  then, 
too.  It's  all  clear  to  me.  He  has  been  visiting  a 
friend, — perhaps  his  brother,  as  he  said, — and  he 
did  spend  less  than  three  days  in  the  visit.  What 
did  he  come  for?  Let  me  tell  you !  That  friend,  or 
brother,  is  Jingoss,  and  he  came  up  here  to  warn 
him  that  we're  after  him.  The  Chippewa  suspected 
us  a  little  on  the  Missinaibie,  but  he  wasn't  sure. 
Probably  he's  had  his  eye  on  us  ever  since." 

"But  why  didn't  he  warn  this  Jingoss  long  ago, 
then?"  objected  Dick. 

"Because  we  fooled  him,  just  as  we  fooled  all  the 
Injuns.  We  might  be  looking  for  winter  posts, 
just  as  we  said.  And  then  if  he  came  up  here  and 
told  Jingoss  we  were  after  him,  when  really  we 
didn't  know  beans  about  Jingoss  and  his  steals,  and 
then  this  Jingoss  should  skip  the  country  and  leave 
an  almighty  good  fur  district  all  for  nothing,  that 
would  be  a  nice  healthy  favour  to  do  for  a  man, 
wouldn't  it !  No,  he  had  to  be  sure  before  he  made 
any  moves.  And  he  didn't  get  to  be  sure  until  he 
heard  somehow  from  some  one  who  saw  our  trails 
that  three  people  were  travelling  in  the  winter  up 


214  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

through  this  country.    Then  he  piked  out  to  warn 

Jingoss." 

"I  believe  you're  right !"  cried  Dick. 

"Of  course  I'm  right.  And  another  thing;  if 
that's  the  case  we're  pretty  close  there.  How  many 
more  trappers  are  there  in  this  district  ?  Just  one ! 
And  since  this  Chippewa  is  going  back  on  his  back 
trail  within  three  days  after  he  made  it,  he  couldn't 
have  gone  farther  than  that  one  man.  And  that 
one  man  must  be " 

"Jingoss  himself !"  finished  Dick. 

"Within  a  day  and  a  half  of  us,  anyway ;  prob- 
ably much  closer,"  supplemented  Sam.  "It's  as 
plain  as  a  sledge-trail." 

"He's  been  warned,"  Dick  reminded  him. 

But  Sam,  afire  with  the  inspiration  of  inductive 
reasoning,  could  see  no  objection  there. 

"This  Chippewa  knew  we  were  in  the  country," 
he  argued,  "but  he  hadn't  any  idea  we  were  so  close. 
If  he  had,  he  wouldn't  have  been  so  foolish  as  to 
follow  his  own  back  track  when  he  was  going  out. 
I  don't  know  what  his  ideas  were,  of  course,  but  he 
was  almighty  surprised  to  see  us  here.  He's  warned 
this  Jingoss,  not  more  than  a  day  or  so  ago.  But 


CHAPTER    TWENTY  215 

he  didn't  tell  him  to  skedaddle  at  once.  Pie  said, 
'Those  fellows  are  after  you,  and  they're  moseying 
around  down  south  of  here,  and  probably  they'll  get 
up  here  in  the  course  of  the  winter.  You'd  proba- 
ply  better  slide  out  'till  they  get  done.'  Then  he 
stayed  a  day  and  smoked  a  lot,  and  started  back. 
Now,  if  Jingoss  just  thinks  we're  coming  some  time, 
and  not  to-morrow,  he  ain't  going  to  pull  up  stakes 
in  such  a  hell  of  a  hurry.  He'll  pack  what  furs  he's 
got,  and  he'll  pick  up  what  traps  he's  got  out. 
That  would  take  him  several  days,  anyway.  My 
«on,  we're  in  the  nick  of  time !" 

"Sam,  you're  a  wonder,"  said  Dick,  admiringly. 
"I  never  could  have  thought  all  that  out." 

"If  that  idea's  correct,"  went  on  Sam,  "and  the 
Chippewa's  just  come  from  Jingoss,  why  we've  got 
the  Chippewa's  trail  to  follow  back,  haven't  we?" 

"Sure!"  agreed  Dick,  "all  packed  and  broken." 

They  righted  the  sledge  and  unbound  the  dogs' 
jaws. 

"Well,  we  got  rid  of  the  girl,"  said  Dick,  cas- 
ually. "Damn  little  fool.  I  didn't  think  she'd 
leave  us  that  easy.  She'd  been  with  us  quite  a  while." 

"Neither  did  I,"  admitted  Sam ;  "but  it's  natural, 


116  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

Dick.  We  ain't  her  people,  and  we  haven't  treated 
her  very  well,  and  I  don't  wonder  she  was  sick  of  it 
and  took  the  first  chance  back.  We've  got  our  work 
cut  Out  for  us  now,  and  we're  just  as  well  off  with- 
out her." 

"The  Chlppewa's  a  sort  of  public  benefactor  all 
round,"  said  Dick. 

The  dogs  yawned  prodigiously,  stretching  their 
jaws  after  the  severe  muzzling.  Sam  began  reflec- 
tively to  undo  the  flaps  of  the  sledge. 

"Guess  we'd  better  camp  here,"  said  he.  "It's 
getting  pretty  late  and  we're  due  for  one  hell  of  a 
tramp  to-morrow." 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-ONE 

Some  time  during  the  night  May-may-gwdn  re- 
joined them.  Sam  was  awakened  by  the  demon- 
stration of  the  dogs,  at  first  hostile,  then  friendly 
with  recognition.  He  leaped  to  his  feet,  startled  at 
the  apparition  of  a  human  figure.  Dick  sat  up  alert 
at  once.  The  fire  had  almost  died,  but  between  the 
glow  of  its  embers  and  the  light  of  the  aurora 
sifted  through  the  trees  they  made  her  out. 

"Oh,  for  God's  sake!"  snarled  Dick,  and  lay 
back  again  in  his  blankets,  but  in  a  moment  resumed 
his  sitting  position.  "She  made  her  choice,"  he 
proffered  vehemently,  "make  her  stick  to  it !  Make 
her  stick  to  it.  She  can't  change  her  mind 
every  other  second  like  this,  and  we  don't  need 
her!" 

But  Sam,  piling  dry  wood  on  the  fire,  looked  in 
her  face. 

"Shut    up,    Dick,"    he    commanded    sharply. 

''Something  in  this." 

817 


218  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

The  young  man  stared  at  his  companion  an  enig- 
matical instant,  hesitating  as  to  his  reply. 

"Oh,  all  right,"  he  replied  at  last  with  ostenta- 
tious indifference.  "I  don't  give  a  damn.  Don't 
sit  up  too  late  with  the  young  lady.  Good  night !" 
He  disappeared  beneath  his  coverings,  plainly  dis- 
gruntled, as,  for  a  greater  or  less  period  of  time, 
he  always  was  when  even  the  least  of  his  plans  or 
points  of  view  required  readjustment. 

Sam  boiled  tea,  roasted  a  caribou  steak,  knelt  and 
removed  the  girl's  damp  foot-gear  and  replaced  it 
with  fresh.  Then  he  held  the  cup  to  her  lips,  cut 
the  tough  meat  for  her  with  his  hunting-knife,  even 
fed  her  as  though  she  were  a  child.  He  piled  more 
wood  on  the  fire,  h"  wrapped  about  her  shoulders 
one  of  the  blankets  with  the  hare-skin  lining. 
Finally,  when  nothing  more  remained  to  be  done, 
he  lit  his  pipe  and  squatted  on  his  heels  close  ta 
her,  lending  her  mood  the  sympathy  of  human 
silence. 

She  drank  the  tea,  swallowed  the  food,  permitted 
the  nhange  of  her  foot-gear,  bent  her  shoulders  to 
the  blanket,  all  without  the  appearance  of  con- 
iciouspess.  The  corners  of  her  lips  were  bent  firmly 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-ONE  219 

downward.  Her  eyes,  fixed  and  exalted,  gazed 
beyond  the  fire,  beyond  the  dancing  shadows, 
beyond  the  world.  After  a  long  interval  she 
began  to  speak,  low-voiced,  in  short  disconnected 
sentences. 

"My  brothers  seek  the  Ojibway,  Jingoss.  They 
will  take  him  to  Conjuror's  House.  But  Jingoss 
knows  that  my  brothers  come.  He  has  been  told 
by  Ah-tek.  He  leaves  the  next  sun.  He  is  to 
travel  to  the  west,  to  Peace  River.  Now  his  camp 
is  five  hours  to  the  north.  I  know  where  it  is.  Jin- 
goss has  three  dogs.  He  has  much  meat.  He  has 
no  gun  but  the  trade-gun.  I  have  learned  this.  I 
come  to  tell  it  to  my  brothers." 

"Why,  May-may-gwan  ?"  inquired  Sam,  gently. 

She  turned  on  him  a  look  of  pride. 

"Have  you  thought  I  had  left  you  for  him  ?"  she 
asked.  "I  have  learned  these  things." 

Sam  uttered  an  exclamation  of  dismay. 

"What  ?"  she  queried  with  a  slow  surprise. 

"But  he,  the  Chippewa,"  Sam  pointed  out,  "now 
he  knows  of  our  presence.  He  will  aid  Jingoss ;  he 
will  warn  him  afresh  to-night!" 

May-may-gwan  was  again  rapt  in  sad  but  ex- 


THE    SILENT    PLACES 
alted   contemplation   of   something   beyond.      She 
answered  merely  by  a  contemptuous  gesture. 

"But— "  insisted  Sam. 

"I  know,"  she  replied,  with  conviction. 

Sam,  troubled  he  knew  not  why,  leaned  forward 
to  arrange  the  fire. 

"How  do  you  know,  Little  Sister?"  he  inquired, 
after  some  hesitation. 

She  answered  by  another  weary  gesture.  Again 
Sam  hesitated. 

"Little  Sister,"  said  he,  at  last,  "I  am  an  old  man. 
I  have  seen  many  years  pass.  They  have  left  me 
some  wisdom.  They  have  made  my  heart  good  to 
those  who  are  in  trouble.  If  it  was  not  to  return  to 
your  own  people,  then  why  did  you  go  with  Ah-teV 
this  morning?" 

"That  I  might  know  what  my  brothers  wished 
to  know." 

"And  you  think  he  told  you  all  these  things 
truly?"  doubted  Sam. 

She  looked  directly  at  him. 

**Little  Father,"  said  she  slowly,  "long  has  this 
man  wanted  me  to  live  in  his  wigwam.  For  that  he 
joined  Haukemah's  band; — because  I  was  there. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-ONE  221 

I  have  been  good  in  his  eyes.  Never  have  I  given 
him  favour.  My  favour  always  would  unlock  hi» 
heart." 

"But  are  you  sure  he  spoke  truth,"  objected 
Sam.  "You  have  never  looked  kindly  on  him.  You 
left  Haukemah's  band  to  go  with  us.  How  could 
he  trust  you?" 

She  looked  at  him  bravely. 

"Little  Father,"  she  replied,  "there  is  a  moment 
when  man  and  woman  trust  utterly,  and  when  they 
say  truly  what  lies  in  their  hearts." 

"Good  God !"  cried  Sam,  in  English. 

"It  was  the  only  way,"  she  answered  the  spirit  of 
his  interjection.  "I  had  known  before  only  his 
forked  tongue." 

"Why  did  you  do  this,  girl  ?  You  had  no  right, 
no  reason.  You  should  have  consulted  us." 

"Little  Father,"  said  she,  "the  people  of  your 
race  are  a  strange  people.  I  do  not  understand 
them.  An  evil  is  done  them,  and  they  pass  it  by ;  a 
good  is  done  them,  and  they  do  not  remember. 
With  us  it  is  different.  Always  in  our  hearts  dwell 
the  good  and  the  evil." 

"What  good  have  we  done  to  you?"  asked  Sam. 


222  THE    SILENT   PLACES 

"Jibiwanisi  has  looked  into  ray  heart,"  she  re- 
plied, lapsing  into  the  Indian  rhetoric  of  deep  emo- 
tion. "He  has  looked  into  my  heart,  and  in  the 
doorway  he  blots  out  the  world.  At  the  first  I 
wanted  to  die  when  he  would  not  look  on  me  with 
favour.  Then  I  wanted  to  die  when  I  thought  I 
should  never  possess  him.  Now  it  is  enough  that  I 
am  near  him,  that  I  lay  his  fire,  and  cook  his  tea 
and  caribou,  that  I  follow  his  trail,  that  I  am  ready 
when  he  needs  me,  that  I  can  raise  my  eyes  and  see 
hin  breaking  the  trail.  For  when  I  look  up  at  him 
the  sun  breaks  out,  and  the  snow  shines,  and  there 
is  a  light  under  the  trees.  And  when  I  think  of 
raising  my  eyes,  and  he  not  there,  nor  anywhere 
near,  then  my  heart  freezes,  Little  Father,  freezes 
with  loneliness." 

Abruptly  she  arose,  casting  aside  the  blanket 
and  stretching  her  arms  rigid  above  her  head. 
Then  with  equal  abruptness  she  stooped,  caught  up 
her  bedding,  spread  it  out,  and  lay  down  stolidly 
to  rest,  turning  her  back  to  both  the  white  men. 

But  Sam  remained  crouched  by  the  fire  until  the 
morning  hour  of  waking,  staring  with  troubled 
eyes. 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-TWO 

Later  in  the  morning  Dick  attempted  some  remark 
on  the  subject  of  the  girl's  presence.  At  once  Sam 
whirled  on  him  with  a  gust  of  passion  utterly  unlike 
his  ordinary  deliberate  and  even  habit. 

"Shut  your  damned  mouth!"  he  fairly  shouted. 

Dick  whistled  in  what  he  thought  was  a  new  en- 
lightenment, and  followed  literally  the  other's  vig- 
orous advice.  Not  a  syllable  did  he  utter  for  an 
hour,  by  which  time  the  sun  had  risen.  Then  he 
stopped  and  pointed  to  a  fresh  trail  converging  into 
that  they  were  following. 

The  prints  of  two  pairs  of  snow-shoes  joined; 
those  of  one  returned. 

Sam  gasped.  Dick  looked  ironical.  The  inter- 
pretation was  plain  without  the  need  of  words.  The 
Chippewa  and  the  girl,  although  they  had  started 
to  the  southeast,  had  made  a  long  detour  in  order 
again  to  reach  Jingoss.  These  two  pairs  of  snow- 
shoe  tracks  marked  where  they  had  considered  it 
223 


224  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

safe  again  to  strike  into  the  old  trail  made  by  the 
Chippew*  in  going  and  coming.  The  one  track 
showed  where  Ah-tek  had  pushed  on  to  rejoin  his 
friend ;  the  other  was  that  of  the  girl  returning  for 
some  reason  the  night  before,  perhaps  to  throw 
them  off  the  scent. 

"Looks  as  if  they'd  fooled  you,  and  fooled  you 
good,"  said  Dick,  cheerfully. 

For  a  single  instant  doubt  drowned  Sam's  faith 
in  his  own  insight  and  in  human  nature. 

"Dick,"  said  he,  quietly,  "raise  your  eyes." 

Not  five  rods  farther  on  the  trail  the  two  had 
camped  for  the  night.  Evidently  Ah-tek  had  dis- 
covered his  detour  to  have  lasted  out  the  day,  and, 
having  satisfied  himself  that  his  and  his  friend's 
enemies  were  not  ahead  of  him,  he  had  called  a  halt. 
The  snow  had  been  scraped  away,  the  little  fire 
built,  the  ground  strewn  with  boughs.  So  far  the 
indications  were  plain  and  to  be  read  at  a  glance. 
But  upright  in  the  snow  were  two  snow-shoes,  and 
tumbled  on  the  ground  was  bedding. 

Instantly  the  two  men  leaped  forward.  May- 
may-gwan,  her  face  stolid  and  expressionless,  but 
her  eyes  glowing,  stood  straight  and  motionless  by 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-TWO  225 

the  dogs.  Together  they  laid  hold  of  the  smoothly 
spread  top  blanket  and  swept  it  aside.  Beneath  waR 
a  jumble  of  warmer  bedding.  In  it,  his  fists 
clenched,  his  eyes  half  open  in  the  horrific  surprise 
of  a  sudden  calling,  lay  the  Chippewa  stabbed  to 
the  heart. 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-THREE 

The  silence  of  the  grave  lay  over  the  white  world. 
Deep  in  the  forest  a  tree  detonated  with  the  frost. 
There  by  the  cold  last  night's  camp  the  four  human 
figures  posed,  motionless  as  a  wind  that  has  died. 
Only  the  dogs,  lolling,  stretching,  sending  the  warm 
steam  of  their  breathing  into  the  dead  air,  seemed 
to  stand  for  the  world  of  life,  and  the  world  of  sen- 
tient creatures.  And  yet  their  very  presence,  unob- 
trusive in  the  forest  shadows,  by  contrast  thrust 
farther  these  others  into  the  land  of  phantoms  and 
of  ghosts. 

Then  quietly,  as  with  one  consent,  the  three  liv- 
ing ones  turned  away.  The  older  woodsman 
stepped  into  the  trail,  leading  the  way  for  the 
dogs;  the  younger  woodsman  swung  in  behind  at 
the  gee-pole ;  the  girl  followed.  Once  more,  slowly, 
as  though  reluctant,  the  forest  trees  resumed  their 
silent  progress  past  those  three  toiling  in  the  tread- 
mill of  the  days.  The  camp  dropped  back ;  it  con- 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-THREE  227 
fused  itself  in  the  frost  mists;  it  was  gone,  gone 
into  the  mystery  and  the  vastness  of  the  North,  gone 
with  its  tragedy  and  its  symbol  of  the  greatness  of 
human  passion,  gone  with  its  one  silent  watcher  star- 
,iig  at  the  sky,  awaiting  the  coming  of  day.  The 
frost  had  mercifully  closed  again  about  its  revela- 
tion. No  human  eye  would  ever  read  that  page 
again. 

Each  of  the  three  seemed  wrapped  in  the  splendid 
isolation  of  his  own  dream.  They  strode  on  sight- 
less, like  somnambulists.  Only  mechanically  they 
kept  the  trail,  and  why  'hey  did  so  they  could  not 
have  told.  No  coherent  thoughts  passed  through 
their  brains.  But  alwt.ys  the  trees,  frost-rimed, 
drifted  past  like  phantoms;  r.lways  the  occult  in- 
fluences of  the  North  loomed  large  on  their  horizon 
like  mirages,  dwindled  in  the  actuality,  but  threat- 
ened again  in  the  bigness  of  mystery  when  they  had 
passed.  The  North  was  near,  threatening,  driving 
the  terror  of  her  tragedy  home  to  the  '  -ts  of 
these  staring  mechanical  plodders,  who  now  trav- 
elled they  knew  not  why,  farther  and  farther  into 
the  depths  of  dread. 

But  the  dogs  stopped,   and  Billy,  the  leader, 


Z28  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

sniffed  audibly  in  inquiry  of  what  lay  ahead.  In- 
stantly, in  the  necessity  for  action,  the  spell  broke. 
The  mystery  which  had  lain  so  long  at  their  horizon, 
which  but  now  had  crept  in,  threatening  to  smother 
them,  rolled  back  to  its  accustomed  place.  The 
north  withheld  her  hand. 

Before  them  was  another  camp,  one  that  had  been 
long  used.  A  conical  tepee  or  wigwam,  a  wide  space 
cleared  of  snow,  much  debris,  racks  and  scaffolds 
for  the  accommodation  of  supplies,  all  these  attested 
long  occupancy. 

Sam  jerked  the  cover  from  his  rifle,  and  cast  a 
hasty  glance  at  the  nipple  to  see  if  it  was  capped. 
Dick  jumped  forward  and  snatched  aside  the  open- 
ing into  the  wigwam. 

"Not  at  home !"  said  he. 

"Gone,"  corrected  Sam,  pointing  to  a  fresh  trail 
beyond. 

At  once  the  two  men  turned  their  attention  to 
this.  After  some  difficulty  they  established  the  fact 
of  a  three-dog  team.  Testing  the  consistency  of  the 
snow  they  proved  a  heavy  load  on  the  toboggan. 

"I'm  afraid  that  means  he's  gone  for  good,"  said 
Sam. 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-THREE  229 

A  further  examination  of  camp  corroborated 
this.  The  teepee  had  been  made  double,  with  the 
space  between  the  two  walls  stuffed  with  moss,  so 
evidently  it  had  been  built  as  permanent  winter 
quarters.  The  fact  of  its  desertion  at  this  time  of 
year  confirmed  the  reasoning  as  to  the  identity 
of  its  occupant  and  the  fact  of  his  having  been 
warned  by  the  dead  Chippewa.  Skulls  of  animals 
indicated  a  fairly  prosperous  fur  season.  But  the 
skulls  of  animals,  a  broken  knife,  a  pile  of  balsam- 
boughs,  and  the  deserted  wigwam  were  all  that  re- 
mained. Jingoss  had  taken  with  him  his  traps, 
his  pelts,  his  supplies. 

"That's  a  good  thing,"  concluded  Sam,  "a 
mighty  good  thing.  It  shows  he  ain't  much  scared. 
He  don't  suspect  we're  anywhere's  near  him;  only 
that  it  ain't  very  healthy  to  spend  the  winter  in  this 
part  of  the  country.  If  he'd  thought  we  was  close, 
he  wouldn't  have  lugged  along  a  lot  of  plunder; 
he'd  be  flying  mighty  light." 

"That's  right,"  agreed  Dick. 

"And  in  that  case  he  isn't  travelling  very  fast. 
We'll  soon  catch  up." 

"He    only    left    this    morning,"    supplemented 


230  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

Dick,  examining  the  frost-crystals  in  ^he  new-cut 

trail. 

Without  wasting  further  attention,  they  set  out 
in  pursuit.  The  girl  followed.  Dick  turned  to  her. 

"I  think  we  shall  catch  him  very  soon,"  said  he, 
in  Ojibway. 

The  girl's  face  brightened  and  her  eyes  filled. 
The  simple  words  admitted  her  to  confidence,  im- 
plied that  she,  too,  had  her  share  in  the  undertak- 
ing, her  interest  in  its  outcome.  She  stepped  for- 
ward with  winged  feet  of  gladness. 

Luckily  a  light  wind  had  sprung  up  against 
them.  They  proceeded  as  quietly  and  as  swiftly 
as  they  could.  In  a  short  time  they  came  to  a  spot 
where  Jingoss  had  boiled  tea.  This  indicated,  that 
he  must  have  started  late  in  the  morning  to  have 
accomplished  only  so  shore  a  distance  before  noon. 
The  trail,  too,  became  fresher. 

Billy,  the  regular  lead  dog,  on  this  occasion  oc- 
cupied his  official  position  ahead,  although,  as  has 
been  pointed  out,  he  was  sometimes  alternated  with 
the  hound,  who  now  ran  just  behind  him.  Third 
trotted  Wolf,  a  strong  beast,  but  a  stupid;  then 
Claire,  at  the  sledge,  sagacious,  alert,  ready  to  turn 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-THREE  231 

the  sledge  from  obstruction.  For  a  long  time  all 
these  beasts,  with  the  strange  intelligence  of  animals 
much  associated  with  man,  had  entertained  a  strong 
interest  in  the  doings  of  their  masters.  Something 
besides  the  day's  journey  was  in  the  wind.  They 
felt  it  through  their  keen  instinctive  responsiveness 
to  the  moods  of  those  over  them;  they  knew  it  by 
the  testimony  of  their  bright  eyes  which  told  them 
that  these  investigations  and  pryings  were  not  all 
in  an  ordinary  day's  travel.  Investigations  and 
pryings  appeal  to  a  dog's  nature.  Especially  did 
Mack,  the  hound,  long  to  be  free  of  his  harness  that 
he,  too,  might  sniff  here  and  there  in  odd  nooks  and 
crannies,  testing  with  that  marvellously  keen  nose 
of  his  what  his  masters  regarded  so  curiously.  Now 
at  last  he  understood  from  the  frequent  stops  and 
examinations  that  the  trail  was  the  important 
thing.  From  time  to  time  he  sniffed  of  it  deeply, 
saturating  his  memory  with  the  quality  of  its  efflu- 
via. Always  it  grew  fresher.  And  then  at  last  the 
wann  animal  scent  rose  alive  to  his  nostrils,  and  he 
lifted  his  head  and  bayed. 

The  long,  weird  sound  struck  against  the  silence 
with  the  impact  of  a  blow.    Nothing  more  undesira- 


232  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

ble  could  have  happened.  Again  Mack  bayed,  and 
the  echoing  bell  tones  of  his  voice  took  on  a  strange 
similarity  to  a  tocsin  of  warning.  Rustling  and 
crackling  across  the  men's  fancies  the  influences  of 
the  North  moved  invisible,  alert,  suddenly  roused. 

Dick  whirled  with  an  exclamation,  throwing 
down  and  back  the  lever  of  his  Winchester,  his  face 
suffused,  his  eye  angry. 

"Damnation!"  exclaimed  Bolton,  anticipating 
his  intention,  and  springing  forward  in  time  to 
strike  up  the  muzzle  of  the  rifle,  though  not  soon 
enough  to  prevent  the  shot. 

Against  the  snow,  plastered  on  a  distant  tree,  the 
bullet  hit,  scattering  the  fine  powder;  then  rico- 
chetted,  shrieking  with  increasing  joy  as  it  mounted 
the  upper  air.  After  it,  as  though  released  by  its 
passage  from  the  spell  of  the  great  frost,  trooped 
the  voices  and  echoes  of  the  wilderness.  In  the  stilJ 
air  such  a  racket  would  carry  miles. 

Sam  looked  from  the  man  to  the  dog. 

"Well,  between  the  two  of  you !"  said  he. 

Dick  sprang  forward,  lashing  the  team  with  bin 
whip. 

"After  him !"  he  shouted. 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-THREE  255 

They  ran  in  a  swirl  of  light  snow.  In  a  very  few 
moments  they  came  to  a  bundle  of  pelts,  a  little  pile 
of  traps,  the  unnecessary  impediments  discarded  by 
the  man  they  pursued.  So  near  had  they  been  to 
a  capture. 

Sam,  out  of  breath,  peremptorily  called  a  halt. 

"Hold  on !"  he  commanded.  "Take  it  easy.  We 
can't  catch  him  like  this.  He's  travelling  light,  and 
he's  one  man,  and  he  has  a  fresh  team.  He'll  pull 
away  from  us  too  easy,  and  leave  us  with  worn-out 
dogs."  The  old  man  sat  and  deliberately  filled  his 
pipe. 

Dick  fumed  up  and  down,  chafing  at  the  delay, 
convinced  that  something  should  be  done  imme- 
diately, but  at  a  loss  to  tell  what  it  should  be. 

"What'll  we  do,  then?"  he  asked,  after  a  little. 

"He  leaves  a  trail,  don't  he?"  inquired  Sam. 
"We  must  follow  it." 

"But  what  good — how  can  we  ever  catch  up  ?" 

"We've  got  to  throw  away  our  traps  and  extra 
duffle.  We've  got  to  travel  as  fast  as  we  can  with- 
out wearing  ourselves  out.  He  may  try  to  go 
too  fast,  and  so  we  may  wear  him  down.  It's  our 
only  show,  anyway.  If  we  lose  him  now,  we'll 


234  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

never  find  him  again.  That  trail  is  all  we  have  to 
go  by." 

"How  if  it  snows  hard?  It's  getting  toward 
spring  storms." 

"If  it  snows  hard — well — "  The  old  man  fell 
silent,  puffing  away  at  his  pipe.  "One  thing  I  want 
you  to  understand,"  he  continued,  looking  up  with 
a  sudden  sternness,  "don't  you  ever  take  it  on  your- 
self to  shoot  that  gun  again.  We're  to  take  that 
man  alive.  The  noise  of  the  shot  to-day  was  a  se- 
rious thing ;  it  gave  Jingoss  warning,  and  perhaps 
spoiled  our  chance  to  surprise  him.  But  he  might 
have  heard  us  anyway.  Let  that  go.  But  if  you'd 
have  killed  that  hound  as  you  started  out  to  do, 
you'd  have  done  more  harm  than  your  fool  head 
could  straighten  out  in  a  lifetime.  That  hound — 
why — he's  the  best  thing  we've  got.  I'd — I'd  al- 
most rather  lose  our  rifles  than  him — "  he  trailed 
off  again  into  rumination. 

Dick,  sobered  as  he  always  was  when  his  compan- 
ion took  this  tone,  inquired  why,  but  received  no 
answer.  After  a  moment  Sam  began  to  sort  the 
contents  of  the  sledge,  casting  aside  all  but  the  ne- 
cessities. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-THREE  235 

"What's  the  plan?"  Dick  ventured. 

"To  follow." 

"How  long  do  you  think  it  will  be  before  we 
catch  him?" 

"God  knows." 

The  dogs  leaned  into  their  harness,  almost  fall- 
ing forward  at  the  unexpected  lightness  of  the  load. 
Again  the  little  company  moved  at  measured  gait. 
For  ten  minutes  nothing  was  said.  Then  Dick : 

"Sam,"  he  said,  "I  think  we  have  just  about  as 
much  chance  as  a  snowball  in  hell." 

"So  do  I,"  agreed  the  old  woodsman,  soberly. 


CHAPTER   TWENTY-FOUR 

They  took  up  the  trail  methodically,  as  though  no 
hurry  existed.  At  the  usual  time  of  the  evening 
they  camped.  Dick  was  for  pushing  on  an  extra 
hour  or  so,  announcing  himself  not  in  the  least  tired, 
and  the  dogs  fresh,  but  Sam  would  have  none  of  it. 

"It's  going  to  be  a  long,  hard  pull,"  he  said. 
"We're  not  going  to  catch  up  with  him  to-day,  or 
to-morrow,  or  next  day.  It  ain't  a  question  of 
whether  you're  tired  or  the  dogs  are  fresh  to-night ; 
it's  a  question  of  how  you're  going  to  be  a  month 
from  now." 

"We  won't  be  able  to  follow  him  a  month,"  ob- 
jected Dick. 

"Why?" 

"It'll  snow,  and  then  we'll  lose  th'  trail.  The 
spring  snows  can't  be  far  off  now.  They'll  cover  it 
a  foot  deep." 

"Mebbe,"  agreed  Sam,  inconclusively. 

"Besides,"  pursued  Dick,  "he'll  be  with  his  own 

m 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FOUR  237 

people  in  less  than  a  month,  and  then  there  won't  be 
any  trail  to  follow." 

Whereupon  Sam  looked  a  little  troubled,  for  this, 
in  his  mind,  was  the  chief  menace  to  their  success. 
If  Jingoss  turned  south  to  the  Lake  Superior  coun- 
try, he  could  lose  himself  among  the  Ojibways  of 
that  region ;  and,  if  all  remained  true  to  him,  the 
white  men  would  never  again  be  able  to  get  trace  of 
him.  If  all  remained  true  to  him: — on  the  chance 
of  that  Sam  was  staking  his  faith.  The  Honoura- 
ble the  Hudson's  Bay  Company  has  been  established 
a  great  many  years ;  it  has  always  treated  its  Ind- 
ians justly;  it  enjoys  a  tremendous  prestige  for  in^ 
fallibility.  The  bonds  of  race  are  strong,  but  the 
probabilities  were  good  that  in  the  tribes  with  whom 
Jingoss  would  be  forced  to  seek  sanctuary  would 
be  some  members  whose  loyalty  to  the  Company 
would  out-balance  the  rather  shadowy  obligatioi 
to  a  man  they  had  never  seen  before.  Jingoss  might 
be  betrayed.  The  chances  of  it  were  fairly  good. 
Sam  Bolton  knew  that  the  Indian  must  be  perfectly 
•aware  of  this,  and  doubted  if  he  would  take  the  risk. 
A  single  man  with  three  dogs  ought  to  run  away 
from  three  pursuers  with  only  four.  Therefore, 


*38  THE    SILENT   PLACES 

the  old  woodsman  thought  himself  justified  in  rely- 
ing at  least  on  the  meagre  opportunity  a  stern  chase 
would  afford. 

He  did  not  know  where  the  Indian  would  be  likely 
to  lead  him.  The  checker-board  of  the  wilderness 
lay  open.  As  he  had  before  reflected,  it  would  be 
only  too  easy  for  Jingoss  to  keep  between  himself 
and  his  pursuers  the  width  of  the  game.  The 
Northwest  was  wide;  the  plains  great;  the  Rocky 
Mountains  lofty  and  full  of  hiding-places, — it 
seemed  likely  he  would  turn  west.  Or  the  deep  for- 
ests of  the  other  coast  offered  unlimited  opportuni- 
ties of  concealment, — the  east  might  well  be  his 
choice.  It  did  not  matter  particularly.  Into  either 
it  would  not  be  difficult  to  follow ;  and  Sam  hoped 
in  either  to  gain  a  sight  of  his  prize  before  the  snow 
melted. 

The  Indian,  however,  after  the  preliminary  twists 
and  turns  of  indecision,  turned  due  north.  Fo** 
nearly  a  week  Sam  thought  this  must  be  a  ruse,  or  a 
cast  by  which  to  gain  some  route  known  to  Jingoss. 
But  the  forests  began  to  dwindle;  the  muskegs  to 
open.  The  Land  of  Little  Sticks  could  not  be  far 
distant,  and  beyond  them  was  the  Barren  Grounds. 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-FOUR  239 

The  old  woodsman  knew  the  defaulter  for  a  reckless 
and  determined  man.  Gradually  the  belief,  and  at 
last  the  conviction,  forced  itself  on  him  that  here  he 
gamed  with  no  cautious  player.  The  Indian  was 
laying  on  the  table  the  stakes  of  life  or  death.  He, 
too,  had  realised  that  the  test  must  be  one  of  endur- 
ance, and  in  the  superbness  of  his  confidence  he  had 
determined  not  to  play  with  preliminary  half  meas- 
ures, but  to  apply  at  once  the  supreme  test  to  him- 
self and  his  antagonists.  He  was  heading  directly 
out  into  the  winter  desert,  where  existed  no  game 
but  the  single  big  caribou  herd  whose  pastures 
were  so  wide  that  to  meet  them  would  be  like  en- 
countering a  single  school  of  dolphins  in  all  the 
seven  seas. 

As  soon  as  Sam  discovered  this,  he  called  Dick's 
attention  to  it. 

"We're  in  for  it,"  said  he,  "he's  going  to  take  us 
out  on  the  Barren  Grounds  and  lose  us." 

"If  he  can,"  supplemented  Dick. 

"Yes,  if  he  can,"  agreed  Sam.  After  a  moment  he 
went  on,  pursuing  his  train  of  thought  aloud,  as 
was  his  habit. 

"He's  thinking  he  has  more  grub  than  we  have ; 


840  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

that's  about  what  it  amounts  to.  He  thinks  he  can 
tire  us  out.  The  chances  are  we'll  find  no  more 
game.  We've  got  to  go  on  what  we  have.  He's 
probably  got  a  sledge-load ; — and  so  have  we ; — but 
he  has  only  one  to  feed,  and  three  dogs,  and  we  have 
three  and  four  dogs." 

"That's  all  right;  he's  our  Injun,"  replied  Dick, 
voicing  the  instinct  of  race  superiority  which,  after 
all,  does  often  seem  to  accomplish  the  impossible. 
"It's  too  bad  we  have  the  girl  with  us,"  he  added, 
after  a  moment. 

"Yes,  it  is,"  agreed  Sam.  Yet  it  was  most  signifi- 
cant that  now  it  occurred  to  neither  of  them  that  she 
might  be  abandoned. 

The  daily  supply  of  provisions  was  immediately 
cut  to  a  minimum,  and  almost  at  once  they  felt  the 
effects.  The  north  demands  hard  work  and  the 
greatest  resisting  power  of  the  vitality ;  the  vitality 
calls  on  the  body  for  fuel;  and  the  body  in  turn 
insists  on  food.  It  is  astonishing  to  see  what  quan- 
tities of  nourishment  can  be  absorbed  without  ap- 
parent effect.  And  when  the  food  is  denied,  but  the 
vitality  is  still  called  upon,  it  is  equally  astonishing 
to  see  how  quickly  it  takes  its  revenge.  Our  travel- 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-FOUR  241 

lers  became  lean  in  two  days,  dizzy  in  a  week,  tired 
to  the  last  fibre,  on  the  edge  of  exhaustion.  They 
took  care,  however,  not  to  step  over  that  edge. 

Sam  Bolton  saw  to  it.  His  was  not  only  the 
bodily  labour,  but  the  mental  anxiety.  His  attitude 
was  the  tenseness  of  a  helmsman  in  a  heavy  wind, 
quivering  to  the  faintest  indication,  ready  to  give 
her  all  she  will  bear,  but  equally  ready  to  luff  this 
side  of  disaster.  Only  his  e  juable  mind  could  have 
resisted  an  almost  overpowering  impulse  toward 
sporadic  bursts  of  speed  or  lengthening  of  hours. 
He  had  much  of  this  to  repress  in  Dick.  But  on  the 
other  hand  he  watched  zealously  against  the  need- 
less waste  of  even  a  single  second.  Every  expedient 
his  long  woods  life  or  his  native  ingenuity  suggested 
he  applied  at  once  to  the  problem  of  the  greatest 
speed,  the  least  expenditure  of  energy  to  a  given 
end,  the  smallest  consumption  of  food  compatible 
with  the  preservation  of  strength.  The  legitimate 
travel  of  a  day  might  amount  to  twenty  or  thirty 
miles.  Sam  added  an  extra  five  or  ten  to  them.  And 
that  five  or  ten  he  drew  from  the  living  tissues  of  his 
very  life.  They  were  a  creation,  made  from  noth- 
ing* given  a  body  by  the  individual  genius  of  the 


242  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

man.  The  drain  cut  down  his  nervous  energy,  made 
him  lean,  drew  the  anxious  lines  of  an  incipient  ex- 
haustion across  his  brow. 

At  first,  as  may  be  gathered,  the  advantages  of 
the  game  seemed  to  be  strongly  in  the  Indian's  fa- 
vour. The  food  supply,  the  transportation  facili- 
ties, and  advantage  of  position  in  case  game  should 
be  encountered  were  all  his.  Against  him  he  need 
count  seriously  only  the  offset  of  dogged  Anglo- 
Saxon  grit.  But  as  the  travel  defined  itself,  certain 
compensations  made  themselves  evident. 

Direct  warfare  was  impossible  to  him.  He  pos- 
sessed only  a  single-barrelled  muzzle-loading  gun 
of  no  great  efficiency.  In  case  of  ambush  he  might, 
with  luck,  be  able  to  kill  one  of  his  pursuers,  but  he 
would  indubitably  be  captured  by  the  other.  He 
would  be  unable  to  approach  them  at  night  because 
of  their  dogs.  His  dog-team  was  stronger,  but  with 
it  he  had  to  break  trail,  which  the  others  could  util- 
ise without  further  effort.  Even  should  his  position 
in  advance  bring  him  on  game,  without  great  luck, 
he  would  be  unable  to  kill  it,  for  he  was  alone  and 
could  not  leave  his  team  for  long.  And  his  very 
swiftness  in  itself  would  react  against  him,  for  h« 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-FOUR  243 

was  continually  under  the  temptation  daily  to  ex- 
ceed by  a  little  his  powers. 

These  considerations  the  white  men  at  first  could 
not  see;  and  so,  logically,  they  were  more  encour- 
aged by  them  when  at  last  they  did  appear.  And 
then  in  turn,  by  natural  reaction  when  the  glow  had 
died,  the  great  discouragement  of  the  barren  places 
fell  on  their  spirits.  They  plodded,  seeing  no  fur- 
ther than  their  daily  necessity  of  travel.  They 
plodded,  their  eyes  fixed  to  the  trail,  which  led  al- 
ways on  toward  the  pole  star,  undeviating,  as  a 
deer  flies  in  a  straight  line  hoping  to  shake  off  the 
wolves. 

The  dense  forest  growth  was  succeeded  in  time 
by  the  low  spruce  and  poplar  thickets ;  these  in  turn 
by  the  open  reaches  planted  like  a  park  with  the 
pointed  firs.  Then  came  the  Land  of  Little  Sticks, 
and  so  on  out  into  the  vast  whiteness  of  the  true 
North,  where  the  trees  are  liliputian  and  the  spaces 
gigantic  beyond  the  measures  of  the  earth;  where 
living  things  dwindle  to  the  significance  of  black 
specks  on  a  limitless  field  of  white,  and  the  aurora 
crackles  and  shoots  and  spreads  and  threatens  like 
a  great  inimical  and  magnificent  spirit. 


THE  SILENT  PLACES 
The  tendency  seemed  towarcf  a  mighty  simplifica- 
tion, as  though  the  complexities  of  the  world  were 
reverting  toward  their  original  philosophic  unity. 
The  complex  summer  had  become  simple  autumn ; 
the  autumn,  winter;  now  the  very  winter  itself  was 
apparently  losing  its  differentiations  of  bushes  and 
trees,  hills  and  valleys,  streams  and  living  things. 
The  growths  were  disappearing ;  the  hills  were  flat- 
tening toward  the  great  northern  wastes;  the  rare 
creatures  inhabiting  these  barrens  took  on  the  col- 
our of  their  environment.  The  ptarmigan  matched 
the  snow, — the  fox, — the  ermine.  They  moved 
either  invisible  or  as  ghosts. 

Little  by  little  such  dwindling  of  the  materials 
for  diverse  observation,  in  alliance  with  the  too- 
severe  labour  and  the  starving,  brought  about  a 
strange  concentration  of  ideas.  The  inner  world 
seemed  to  undergo  the  same  process  of  simplification 
as  the  outer.  Extraneous  considerations  disap- 
peared. The  entire  cosmos  of  experience  came  to 
be  an  expanse  of  white,  themselves,  and  the  Trail. 
These  three  reacted  one  on  the  other,  and  outside  of 
them  there  was  no  reaction. 

In  the  expanse  of  white  was  no  food :  their  food 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-FOUR  245 

w&s  dwindling;  the  Trail  led  on  into  barren  lands 
where  no  food  was  to  be  had.  That  was  the  circle 
that  whirled  insistent  in  their  brains. 

At  night  they  sank  down,  felled  by  the  sheer  bur- 
den of  weariness,  and  no  matter  how  exhausted  they 
might  be  the  Trail  continued,  springing  on  with  the 
same  apparently  tireless  energy  toward  its  unknown 
goal  in  the  North.  Gradually  they  lost  sight  of  the 
ultimate  object  of  their  quest.  It  became  obscured 
by  the  immediate  obj  ect,  and  that  was  the  following 
of  the  Trail.  They  forgot  that  a  man  had  made  it, 
or  if  for  a  moment  it  did  occur  to  them  that  it  was 
the  product  of  some  agency  outside  of  and  above 
itself,  that  agent  loomed  vaguely  as  a  mysterious, 
extra-human  power,  like  the  winds  or  the  cold  or  the 
great  Wilderness  itself.  It  did  not  seem  possible 
that  he  could  feel  the  need  for  food,  for  rest,  that 
ever  his  vital  forces  could  wane.  In  the  north  was 
starvation  for  them,  a  starvation  to  which  they  drew 
ever  nearer  day  by  day,  but  irresistibly  the  notion 
obsessed  them  that  this  forerunner,  the  forerunner 
of  the  Trail,  proved  no  such  material  necessities, 
that  he  drew  his  sustenance  from  his  environment  in 
some  mysterious  manner  not  to  be  understood.  Al- 


246  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

ways  on  and  on  and  on  the  Trail  was  destined  to 
lead  them  until  they  died,  and  then  the  maker  of  it, 
— not  Jingoss,  not  the  Weasel,  the  defaulter,  the 
man  of  flesh  and  blood  and  nerves  and  thoughts  and 
the  capacities  for  suffering, — but  a  being  elusive 
as  the  aurora,  an  embodiment  of  that  dread  coun- 
try, a  servant  of  the  unfriendly  North,  would  re- 
turn as  he  had  done. 

Over  the  land  lay  silence.  The  sea  has  its  under- 
tone on  the  stillest  nights ;  the  woods  are  quiet  with 
an  hundred  lesser  noises ;  but  here  was  absolute,  ter- 
rifying, smothering  silence, — the  suspension  of  all 
sound,  even  the  least, — looming  like  a  threatening 
cloud  larger  and  more  dreadful  above  the  cowering 
imagination.  The  human  soul  demanded  to  shriek 
aloud  in  order  to  preserve  its  sanity,  and  yet  a  whis- 
per uttered  over  against  the  heavy  portent  of  this 
universal  stillness  seemed  a  profanation  that  left 
the  spirit  crouched  beneath  a  fear  of  retribution. 
And  then  suddenly  the  aurora,  the  only  privileged 
voice,  would  crackle  like  a  silken  banner. 

At  first  the  world  in  the  vastness  of  its  spaces 
seemed  to  become  bigger  and  bigger.  Again 
abruptly  it  resumed  its  normal  proportions,  but 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FOUR  247 

they,  the  observers  of  it,  had  been  struck  small.  To 
their  own  minds  the}7  seemed  like  little  black  insects 
crawling  painfully.  In  the  distance  these  insects 
crawled  was  a  disproportion  to  the  energy  expend- 
ed, a  disproportion  disheartening,  filling  the  soul 
with  the  despair  of  an  accomplishment  that  could 
mean  anything  in  the  following  of  that  which  made 
the  Trail. 

Always  they  ate  pemmican.  Of  this  there  re- 
mained a  fairly  plentiful  supply,  but  the  dog  meat 
was  running  low.  ^t  was  essential  that  the  team  be 
well  fed.  Dick  or  Sam  often  travelled  the  entirn 
day  a  quarter  of  a  mile  one  side  or  the  other,  hoping 
thus  to  encounter  game,  but  without  much  success. 
A  fox  or  so,  a  few  ptarmigan,  that  was  all.  These 
they  saved  for  the  dogs.  Three  times  a  day  they 
boiled  tea  and  devoured  the  little  square  of  pem- 
mican. It  did  not  supply  the  bulk  their  digestive 
organs  needed,  and  became  in  time  almost  nausea- 
tingly  unpalatable,  but  it  nourished.  That,  after 
all,  was  the  main  thing.  The  privation  carved  the 
flesh  from  their  muscles,  carved  the  muscles  them- 
selves to  leanness. 

But  in  spite  of  the  best  they  could  do,  the  dog 


248  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

feed  ran  out.  There  remained  but  one  thing  to  do. 
Already  the  sledge  was  growing  lighter  and  three 
dogs  would  be  quite  adequate  for  the  work.  They 
killed  Wolf,  the  surly  and  stupid  "husky."  Every 
scrap  they  saved,  even  to  the  entrails,  wh^ch  froze  at 
once  to  solidity.  The  remaining  dogs  were  put  on 
half  rations,  just  sufficient  to  keep  up  their  strength. 
The  starvation  told  on  their  tempers.  Especially 
did  Claire,  the  sledge-dog,  heavy  with  young,  and 
ravenous  to  feed  their  growth,  wander  about  like  a 
spirit,  whining  mournfully  and  sniffiag  the  barre** 
breeze. 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-FIVE 

The  journey  extended  over  a  month.  The  last  three 
weeks  of  it  were  starvation.  At  first  this  meant 
merely  discomfort  and  the  bearing  of  a  certain 
amount  of  pain.  Later  it  became  acute  suffering. 
Later  still  it  developed  into  a  necessity  for  proving 
what  virtue  resided  in  the  bottom  of  these  men's 
souls. 

Perforce  now  they  must  make  a  choice  of  what 
ideas  they  would  keep.  Some  things  must  be  given 
up,  just  as  some  things  had  to  be  discarded  when 
they  had  lightened  the  sledge.  All  the  lesser  lum- 
ber had  long  since  gone.  Certain  bigger  things 
still  remained. 

They  held  grimly  to  the  idea  of  catching  the  Ind- 
ian. Their  natural  love  of  life  held  tenaciously  to 
a  hope  of  return.  An  equally  natural  hope  clung 
to  the  ridiculous  idea  that  the  impossible  might  hap- 
pen, that  the  needle  should  drop  from  the  haystack, 
that  the  caribou  might  spring  into  their  view  from 
HI 


250  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

the  emptiness  of  space.     Now  it  seemed  that  they 

must  make  a  choice  between  the  first  two. 

"Dick,"  said  Bolton,  solemnly,  "we've  mighty 
little  pemmican  left.  If  we  turn  around  now,  it'll 
just  about  get  us  back  to  the  woods.  If  we  go  on 
farther,  we'll  have  to  run  into  more  food,  or  we'll 
never  get  out." 

"I  knew  it,"  replied  Dick. 

"Well?" 

Dick  looked  at  him  astonished.  "Well,  what?" 
he  inquired. 

"Shall  we  give  it  up?" 

"Give  it  up!"  cried  the  young  man.  "Of  course 
not;  what  you  thinking  of?" 

"There's  the  caribou,"  suggested  Sam,  doubt- 
fully ;  "or  maybe  Jingoss  has  more  grub  than  he's 
going  to  need.  It's  a  slim  chance." 

They  still  further  reduced  the  ration  of  pemmi- 
can. The  malnutrition  began  to  play  them  tricks. 
It  dizzied  their  brains,  swarmed  the  vastness  with 
hordes  of  little,  dancing  black  specks  like  mosqui- 
toes. In  the  morning  every  muscle  of  their  bodies 
was  stiffened  to  the  consistency  of  rawhide,  and  the 
movements  necessary  to  loosen  the  fibres  became  an 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FIVE  251 

agony  hardly  to  be  endured.  Nothing  of  voluntary 
consciousness  remained,  could  remain,  but  the  effort 
of  lifting  the  feet,  driving  the  dogs,  following  the 
Trail;  but  involuntary  consciousness  lent  them 
strange  hallucinations.  They  saw  figures  moving 
across  the  snow,  but  when  they  steadied  their  vision, 
nothing  was  there. 

They  began  to  stumble  over  nothing;  occasion- 
ally to  fall.  In  this  was  added  effort,  but  more  par- 
ticularly added  annoyance.  They  had  continually 
to  watch  their  footsteps.  The  walking  was  no 
longer  involuntary,  but  they  had  definitely  to  think 
of  each  movement  necessary  to  the  step,  and  this 
gave  them  a  further  reason  for  preoccupation,  for 
concentration.  Dick's  sullenness  returned,  more 
terrible  than  in  the  summer.  He  went  forward  with 
his  head  down,  refusing  to  take  notice  of  anything. 
He  walked :  that  was  to  him  the  whole  of  existence. 

Once  reverting  analogously  to  his  grievance  of 
that  time,  he  mentioned  the  girl,  saying  briefly  that 
soon  they  must  all  die,  and  it  was  better  that  she 
die  now.  Perhaps  her  share  of  the  pemmican 
would  bring  them  to  their  quarry.  The  idea  of 
return — not  abandoned,  but  persistently  ignored — 


S52  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

thrust  into  prominence  this  other, — to  come  to 
close  quarters  with  the  man  they  pursued,  to  die 
grappled  with  him,  dragging  him  down  to  the 
same  death  by  which  these  three  perished.  But 
Sam  would  have  none  of  it,  and  Dick  easily 
dropped  the  subject,  relapsing  into  his  grim 
monomania  of  pursuit. 

In  Dick's  case  even  the  hope  of  coming  to  grap- 
ples was  fading.  He  somehow  had  little  faith  in 
his  enemy.  The  man  was  too  intangible,  too  difficult 
to  gauge.  Dick  had  not  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
Indian  since  the  pursuit  began.  The  young  man 
realised  perfectly  his  own  exhaustion;  but  he  had 
no  means  of  knowing  whether  or  not  the  Indian  was 
tiring.  His  faith  waned,  though  his  determination 
did  not.  Unconsciously  he  substituted  this  mono- 
mania of  pursuit.  It  took  the  place  of  the  faith  he 
felt  slipping  from  him — the  faith  that  ever  he 
would  see  the  fata  morgana  luring  him  out  into  the 
Silent  Places. 

Soon  it  became  necessary  to  kill  another  dog. 
Dick,  with  a  remnant  of  his  old  feeling,  pleaded 
for  the  life  of  Billy,  his  pet.  Sam  would  not  enter- 
tain for  a  moment  the  destruction  of  the  hound. 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-FIVE  S53 

There  remained  only  Claire,  the  sledge-dog,  witk 
her  pathetic  brown  eyes,  and  her  affectionate  ways 
of  the  female  dog.  They  went  to  kill  her,  and  dis- 
covered her  in  the  act  of  defending  the  young  to 
which  she  had  just  given  birth.  Near  at  hand 
crouched  Mack  and  Billy,  their  eyes  red  with  fam- 
ine, their  jaws  a-slaver,  eager  to  devour  the  new- 
born puppies.  And  in  the  grim  and  dreadful  sight 
Sam  Bolton  seemed  at  last  to  glimpse  the  face  of 
his  terrible  antagonist. 

They  beat  back  the  dogs,  and  took  the  puppies. 
These  they  killed  and  dressed.  Thus  Claire's  life 
was  bought  for  her  by  the  sacrifice  of  her  prog- 
eny. 

But  even  that  was  a  temporary  respite.  She  fell 
in  her  turn,  and  was  devoured,  to  the  last  scrap  of 
her  hide.  Dick  again  intervened  to  save  Billy,  but 
failed.  Sam  issued  his  orders  the  more  perempto- 
rily as  he  felt  his  strength  waning,  and  realised  the 
necessity  of  economising  every  ounce  of  it,  even  to 
that  required  in  the  arguing  of  expedients.  Dick 
yielded  with  slight  resistance,  as  he  had  yielded  in 
the  case  of  the  girl.  All  matters  but  the  one  were 
rapidly  becoming  unimportant  to  him.  That  con- 


254  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

centration  of  his  forces  which  represented  the 
weapon  of  his  greatest  utility,  was  gradually  tak- 
ing place.  He  was  becoming  an  engine  of  dogged 
determination,  an  engine  whose  burden  the  older 
man  had  long  carried  on  his  shoulders,  but  which 
now  he  was  preparing  to  launch  when  his  own 
strength  should  be  gone. 

At  last  there  was  left  but  the  one  dog,  Mack,  the 
hound,  with  the  wrinkled  face  and  the  long,  hang- 
ing ears.  He  developed  unexpected  endurance  and 
an  entire  willingness,  pulling  strongly  on  the  sledge, 
waiting  in  patience  for  his  scanty  meal,  searching 
the  faces  of  his  masters  with  his  wise  brown  eyes, 
dumbly  sympathetic  in  a  trouble  whose  entirety  he 
could  not  understand. 

The  two  men  took  turns  in  harnessing  themselves 
to  the  sledge  with  Mack.  The  girl  followed  at  the 
gee-pole. 

May-may-gwan  showed  the  endurance  of  a  man. 
She  made  no  complaint.  Always  she  followed,  and 
followed  with  her  mind  alert.  Where  Dick  shut 
obstinately  his  faculties  within  the  bare  necessity  of 
travel,  she  and  her  other  companion  were  contin- 
ually alive  to  the  possibilities  of  expedient.  This 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FIVE  255 

constituted  an  additional  slight  but  constant  drain 
on  their  vital  forces. 

Starvation  gained  on  them.  Perceptibly  their 
strength  was  waning.  Dick  wanted  to  kill  the  other 
dog.  His  argument  was  plausible.  The  toboggan 
was  now  very  light.  The  men  could  draw  it.  They 
would  have  the  dog-meat  to  recruit  their  strength. 

Sam  shook  his  head.  Dick  insisted.  He  even 
threatened  force.  But  then  the  woodsman  roused 
his  old-time  spirit  and  fairly  beat  the  young  man 
into  submission  by  the  vehemence  of  his  anger. 
The  effort  left  him  exhausted.  He  sank  back  into 
himself,  and  refused,  in  the  apathy  of  weariness, 
to  give  any  explanation. 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-SIX 

By  now  it  was  the  first  week  in  March.  The 
weather  began  to  assume  a  new  aspect.  During  the 
winter  months  it  had  not  snowed,  for  the  moisture 
had  all  been  squeezed  from  the  air,  leaving  it  crisp, 
brilliant,  sparkling.  Now  the  sun,  long  hesitant,  at 
last  began  to  swing  up  the  sky.  Far  south  the 
warmer  airs  of  spring  were  awakening  the  Kansas 
fields.  Here  in  the  barren  country  the  steel  sky 
melted  to  a  haze.  During  the  day,  when  the  sun 
was  up,  the  surface  of  the  snow  even  softened  a  lit- 
tle, and  a  very  perceptible  warmth  allowed  them  to 
rest,  their  parkas  thrown  back,  without  discomfort. 
The  men  noticed  this,  and  knew  it  as  the  precur- 
sor of  the  spring  snow-fall.  Dick  grew  desperately 
uneasy,  desperately  anxious  to  push  on,  to  catch 
up  before  the  complete  obliteration  of  the  trail, 
when  his  resources  would  perforce  run  out  for  lack 
of  an  object  to  which  to  apply  them.  He  knew  per- 
fectly well  that  this  must  be  what  the  Indian  had 
336 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SIX  257 

anticipated,  the  reason  why  he  had  dared  to  go  out 
into  the  barren  grounds,  and  to  his  present  helpless 
lack  of  a  further  expedient  the  defaulter's  confi- 
dence in  the  natural  sequence  seemed  only  too  well 
justified.  Sam  remained  inscrutable. 

The  expected  happened  late  one  afternoon.  All 
day  the  haze  had  thickened,  until  at  last,  without 
definite  transition,  it  had  become  a  cloud  covering 
the  entire  sky.  Then  it  had  snowed.  The  great, 
clogging  flakes  sifted  down  gently,  ziz-zagging 
through  the  air  like  so  many  pieces  of  paper.  They 
impacted  softly  against  the  world,  standing  away 
from  each  other  and  from  the  surface  on  which  they 
alighted  by  the  full  stretch  of  their  crystal  arms. 
In  an  hour  three  inches  had  fallen.  The  hollows 
and  depressions  were  filling  to  the  level;  the  Trail 
was  growing  indistinct. 

Dick  watched  from  the  shelter  of  a  growing  de- 
spair. Never  had  he  felt  so  helpless.  This  thing 
was  so  simple,  yet  so  effective ;  and  nothing  he  could 
do  would  nullify  its  results.  As  sometimes  in  a  crisis 
a  man  will  give  his  whole  attention  to  a  trivial 
thing,  so  Dick  fastened  his  gaze  on  a  single  snow- 
•hoe  track  on  the  edge  of  a  covered  bowlder.  By  it 


258  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

he  gauged  the  progress  of  the  storm.  When  at  last 
even  his  imagination  could  not  differentiate  it  from 
the  surface  on  either  side,  he  looked  up.  The  visible 
world  was  white  and  smooth  and  level.  No  faintest 
trace  of  the  Trail  remained.  East,  west,  north, 
south,  lay  uniformity.  The  Indian  had  disap- 
peared utterly  from  the  face  of  the  earth. 

The  storm  lightened  and  faint  streaks  of  light 
shot  through  the  clouds. 

"Well,  let's  be  moving,"  said  Sam. 

"Moving  where?"  demanded  Dick,  bitterly. 

But  the  old  man  led  forward  the  hound. 

"Remember  the  lake  where  we  lost  the  track  of 
that  Chippewa?"  he  inquired.  "Well,  a  foot  of 
light  snow  is  nothing.  Mush  on,  Mack !" 

The  hound  sniffed  deep,  filling  his  nostrils  with 
the  feather  snow,  which  promptly  he  sneezed  out. 
Then  he  swung  off  easily  on  his  little  dog-trot,  never 
at  fault,  never  hesitant,  picking  up  the  turns  and 
twistings  of  the  Indian's  newer  purpose  as  surely 
as  a  mind-reader  the  concealed  pin. 

For  Jingoss  had  been  awaiting  eagerly  this  fall 
of  snow,  as  this  immediate  change  of  direction 
showed.  He  was  sure  that  now  they  could  no  longer 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SIX  259 

follow  him.  It  was  for  this  he  had  lured  them  far- 
ther and  farther  into  the  wilderness,  waiting  for 
the  great  enemy  of  them  all  to  cover  his  track,  to 
throw  across  his  vanishing  figure  her  ultimate  denial 
of  their  purposes.  At  once,  convinced  of  his  safety, 
he  turned  to  the  west  and  southwest. 

At  just  what  moment  he  discovered  that  he  was 
still  followed  it  was  impossible  to  determine.  But 
very  shortly  a  certain  indecision  could  be  read  in  the 
signs  of  his  journeying.  He  turned  to  the  south, 
changed  his  mind,  doubled  on  his  tracks  like  a  rab- 
bit, finally,  his  purpose  decided,  he  shot  away  on 
the  direct  line  again  for  the  frozen  reaches  of  deso- 
lation in  the  north. 

The  moment's  flicker  of  encouragement  lighted 
by  the  success  of  the  dog,  fell  again  to  blackness  as 
the  three  faced  further  incursion  into  the  land  of 
starvation.  They  had  allowed  themselves  for  a  mo- 
ment to  believe  that  the  Indian  might  now  have 
reached  the  limit  of  his  intention;  that  now  he 
might  turn  toward  a  chance  at  least  of  life.  But 
this  showed  that  his  purpose,  or  obstinacy  or 
madness  remained  unchanged,  and  this  newer 
proof  indicated  that  it  possessed  a  depth  of  de- 


260  THE    SILENT   PLACES 

termination  that  might  lead  to  any  extreme.  They 
had  to  readjust  themselves  to  the  idea.  Perforce 
they  had  to  extend  their  faith,  had  to  believe  in  the 
caribou  herds.  From  every  little  rise  they  looked 
abroad,  insisting  on  a  childish  confidence  in  the  ex- 
istence of  game.  They  could  not  afford  to  take  the 
reasonable  view,  could  not  afford  to  estimate  the 
chances  against  their  encountering  in  all  that  vast- 
ness  of  space  the  single  pin-point  where  grazed 
abundance. 

From  time  to  time,  thereafter,  the  snow  fell.  On 
the  mere  fact  of  their  persistence  it  had  litle  effect ; 
but  it  clogged  their  snow-shoes,  it  wore  them  down. 
A  twig  tripped  them;  and  the  efforts  of  all  three 
were  needed  to  aid  one  to  rise.  A  dozen  steps  were 
all  they  could  accomplish  without  rest;  a  dozen 
short,  stumbling  steps  that  were,  nevertheless,  so 
many  mile-posts  in  the  progress  to  their  final  ex- 
haustion. When  one  fell,  he  lay  huddled,  unable 
at  once  to  rally  his  vital  forces  to  attempt  the  exer- 
tion of  regaining  his  feet.  The  day's  journey  was 
pitifully  short,  pitifully  inadequate  to  the  impe- 
rious demands  of  that  onward-leading  Trail,  and 
yet  each  day's  journey  lessened  the  always  desper- 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-SIX  261 

ate  chance  of  a  return  to  the  game  country.  In 
spite  of  that,  it  never  again  crossed  their  minds  that 
it  might  be  well  to  abandon  the  task.  They  might 
die,  but  it  would  be  on  the  Trail,  and  the  death 
clutch  of  their  fingers  would  still  be  extended  to- 
ward the  north,  where  dwelt  their  enemy,  and  into 
whose  protective  arms  their  quarry  had  fled. 

As  his  strength  ebbed  Dick  Herron's  energies 
concentrated  more  and  more  to  his  monomania  of 
pursuit.  The  round,  full  curves  of  his  body  had 
shrunken  to  angles,  the  fresh  tints  of  his  skin  had 
turned  to  leather,  the  flesh  of  his  cheeks  had  sunken, 
his  teeth  showed  in  the  drawing  back  of  his  lips.  All 
these  signs  spoke  of  exhaustion  and  of  ultimate  col- 
lapse. But  as  the  case  grew  more  desperate,  he 
seemed  to  discover  in  some  unsuspected  quality  of 
his  spirit,  or  perhaps  merely  of  his  youth,  a  fitful 
and  wonderful  power.  He  collapsed  from  weak- 
ness, to  be  sure ;  but  in  a  moment  his  iron  will,  ap- 
parently angered  to  incandescence,  got  him  to  his 
feet  and  on  his  way  with  an  excess  of  energy.  He 
helped  the  others.  He  urged  the  dog.  And  then 
slowly  the  fictitious  vigour  ran  out.  The  light,  the 
red,  terrible  glare  of  madness,  faded  from  his  eye ; 


262  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

it  became  glazed  and  lifeless ;  his  shoulders  dropped ; 

his  head  hung ;  he  fell. 

Gradually  in  the  transition  period  between  the 
darkness  of  winter  and  the  coming  of  spring  the 
world  took  on  an  unearthly  aspect.  It  became  an 
inferno  of  light  without  corresponding  warmth,  of 
blinding,  flaring,  intolerable  light  reflected  from 
the  snow.  It  became  luminous,  as  though  the  ghosts 
of  the  ancient  days  of  incandescence  had  revisited 
the  calendar.  It  was  raw,  new,  huge,  uncouth,  em- 
bryonic, adapted  to  the  production  of  tremendous 
monsters,  unfit  for  the  habitation  of  tiny  men  with 
delicate  physical  and  mental  adjustments.  Only 
to  the  mind  of  a  Caliban  could  it  be  other  than  ter- 
rifying. Things  grew  to  a  size  out  of  all  reason. 
The  horizon  was  infinitely  remote,  lost  in  snow- 
mists,  fearful  with  the  large-blown  mirages  of  lit- 
tle things.  Strange  and  indeterminate  somethings 
menaced  on  all  sides,  menaced  in  greater  and  greater 
threat,  until  with  actual  proximity  they  myste- 
riously disappeared,  leaving  behind  them  as  a  blind 
to  conceal  their  real  identity  such  small  matters  as 
a  stunted  shrub,  an  exposed  rock,  the  shadow  of  a 
wind-rift  on  the  snow.  And  low  in  the  sky  danced 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SIX  263 

in  unholy  revel  the  suns,  sometimes  as  many  as  eight 
of  them,  gazing  with  the  abandoned  red  eyes  of  de- 
bauchees on  the  insignificant  travellers  groping 
feebly  amid  phantasmagoria. 

The  great  light,  the  dazzle,  the  glitter,  the  in- 
cessant movement  of  the  mirages,  the  shining  of  the 
mock  suns,  all  these  created  an  impression  of  heat, 
of  light,  of  the  pleasantness  of  a  warmed  land.  Yet 
still  persisted,  only  modified  by  the  sun,  the  cold  of 
the  northern  winter.  And  this  denial  of  appearance 
sufficed  to  render  unreal  all  the  round  globe,  so  that 
at  any  moment  the  eye  anticipated  its  crumbling 
like  a  dust  apple,  with  its  cold,  its  vastness,  its  emp- 
tiness, its  hunger,  its  indecently  many  suns,  leaving 
the  human  soul  in  the  abyss  of  space.  The  North 
threw  over  them  the  power  of  her  spell,  so  that  to 
them  the  step  from  life  to  death  seemed  a  short,  an 
easy,  a  natural  one  to  take. 

Nevertheless  their  souls  made  struggle,  as  did 
their  bodies.  They  fought  down  the  feeling  of 
illusion  just  as  they  had  fought  down  the  feelings 
of  hunger,  of  weariness,  and  of  cold.  Sam  fash- 
ioned rough  wooden  spectacles  with  tiny  transverse 
slits  through  which  to  look,  and  these  they  assumed 


264  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

against  the  snow-blindness.  They  kept  a  sharp 
watch  for  freezing.  Already  their  faces  were 
blackened  and  parched  by  the  frost,  and  cracked 
through  the  thick  skin  down  to  the  raw.  Sam  had 
frozen  his  great  toe,  and  had  with  his  knife  cut  to 
the  bone  in  order  to  prevent  mortification.  They 
tried  to  talk  a  little  in  order  to  combat  by  unison 
of  spirit  the  dreadful  influence  the  North  was  bring- 
ing to  bear.  They  gained  ten  feet  as  a  saint  of  the 
early  church  gained  his  soul  for  paradise. 

Now  it  came  to  the  point  where  they  could  no 
longer  afford  to  eat  their  pemrmcan.  They  boiled 
it,  along  with  strips  of  the  rawhide  dog-harness, 
and  drank  the  soup.  It  sufficed  not  at  all  to  ap- 
pease the  pain  of  their  hunger,  nor  appreciably  did 
it  give  them  strength,  but  somehow  it  fed  the  vital 
spark.  They  endured  fearful  cramps.  So  far  had 
their  faculties  lost  vigour  that  only  by  a  distinct 
effort  of  the  will  could  they  focus  their  eyes  to  the 
examination  of  any  object. 

Their  obsessions  of  mind  were  now  two.  They 
followed  the  Trail;  they  looked  for  the  caribou 
herds.  After  a  time  the  improbability  became  ten- 
uous. They  actually  expected  the  impossible,  felt 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SIX  265 

defrauded  at  not  obtaining  it,  cried  out  weakly 
against  their  ill  fortune  in  not  encountering  the 
herd  that  was  probably  two  thousand  miles  away. 
In  its  withholding  the  North  seemed  to  play  un- 
fairly. She  denied  them  the  chances  of  the  game. 

And  the  Trail!  Not  the  freezing  nor  the  star- 
vation nor  the  illusion  were  so  potent  in  the  deeper 
discouragement  of  the  spirit  as  that.  Always  it  led 
on.  They  could  see  it ;  they  could  see  its  direction ; 
that  was  all.  Tireless  it  ran  on  and  on  and  on.  For 
all  they  knew  the  Indian,  hearty  and  confident  in 
his  wilderness  strength,  might  be  watching  them  at 
every  moment,  laughing  at  the  feeble  thirty  feet 
their  pain  bought  them,  gliding  on  swiftly  in 
an  hour  farther  than  they  could  travel  in  a  day. 
This  possibility  persisted  until,  in  their  minds,  it 
became  the  fact.  They  endowed  their  enemy  with 
all  they  themselves  lacked;  with  strength,  with 
swiftness,  with  the  sustenance  of  life.  Yet  never 
for  a  moment  did  it  occur  to  them  to  abandon  the 
pursuit. 

Sam  was  growing  uncertain  in  his  movements; 
Dick  was  plainly  going  mad.  The  girl  followed; 
that  was  all  one  could  say,  for  whatever  suffering 


266  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

she  proved  was  hidden  beneath  race  stolidity,  and 

more  nobly  beneath  a  great  devotion. 

And  then  late  one  afternoon  they  came  to  a 
bloody  spot  on  the  snow.  Here  Jingoss  had  killed. 
Here  he  had  found  what  had  been  denied  them, 
what  they  needed  so  sorely.  The  North  was  on  his 
side.  He  now  had  meat  in  plenty,  and  meat  meant 
strength,  and  strength  meant  swiftness,  and  swift- 
ness meant  the  safety  of  this  world  for  him  and  the 
certainty  of  the  next  for  them.  The  tenuous  hope 
that  had  persisted  through  all  the  psychological 
pressure  the  North  had  brought  to  bear,  the  hope 
that  they  had  not  even  acknowledged  to  themselves, 
the  hope  based  merely  on  the  circumstance  that  they 
did  not  know,  was  routed  by  this  one  fact.  Now 
they  could  no  longer  shelter  behind  the  flimsy  screen 
of  an  ignorance  of  their  enemy's  condition.  They 
knew.  The  most  profound  discouragement  de- 
scended on  them. 

But  even  yet  they  did  not  yield  to  the  great  an- 
tagonist. The  strength  of  meat  lacked  them:  the 
strength  of  despair  remained.  A  rapid  dash  might 
bring  them  to  grapples.  And  somewhere  in  the 
depths  of  their  indomitable  spirits,  somewhere  in 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SIX  267 

the  line  of  their  hardy,  Anglo-Saxon  descent,  they 
knew  they  would  find  the  necessary  vitality. 

Stars  glittered  like  sparks  on  polished  steel.  On 
the  northwest  wind  swooped  the  chill  of  the  winter's 
end,  and  in  that  chill  was  the  breath  of  the  North. 
Sam  Bolton,  crushed  by  the  weight  of  a  great  ex- 
haustion, recognised  the  familiar  menace,  and  raised 
his  head,  gazing  long  from  glazed  eyes  out  into  the 
Silent  Places. 

"Not  yet!"  he  said  aloud. 


CHAPTER   TWENTY-SEVEN 

B«t  the  next  morning  he  was  unable  to  rise.  The 
last  drop  of  his  vitality  had  run  out.  At  length 
the  connection  between  his  will  and  his  body  had 
been  severed,  so  that  the  latter  was  no  longer  under 
his  command.  After  the  first  moment  he  knew  well 
enough  what  this  meant,  knew  that  here  he  must 
die,  here  he  must  lie  crushed  finally  under  the  sheer 
weight  of  his  antagonist.  It  was  as  though  she, 
the  great  North,  had  heard  his  defiant  words  the 
night  before,  and  thus  proved  to  him  their  empti- 
ness. 

And  yet  the  last  reserves  of  the  old  man's  pur- 
pose were  not  yet  destroyed.  Here  he  must  remain, 
it  is  true,  but  still  he  possessed  next  his  hand  the  hu- 
man weapon  he  had  carried  so  far  and  so  painfully 
by  the  exercise  of  his  ingenuity  and  the  genius  of 
his  long  experience.  He  had  staggered  under  its 
burden  as  far  as  he  could ;  now  was  the  moment  for 
Hunching  it.  He  called  the  young  man  to  him. 
.  968 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-SEVEN  269 

"I  cannot  go  on,"  said  he,  in  gasps.  "Leave  the 
sledge.  Take  the  dog.  Do  not  lose  him.  Travel 
fast.  You  must  get  him  by  to-morrow  night. 
Sleep  some  to-night.  Travel  fast." 

Dick  nodded.  He  understood.  Already  the 
scarlet  hate,  the  dogged  mad  glare  of  a  set  purpose 
was  glazing  his  vision.  It  was  the  sprint  at  the  end 
of  the  race.  He  need  no  longer  save  himself. 

He  took  a  single  blanket  and  the  little  shreds  of 
dog  meat  that  remained.  Some  of  the  pemmican, 
a  mere  scrap,  he  left  with  Sam.  Mack  he  held  in 
leash. 

"I  will  live  five  days,"  went  on  Sam,  "perhaps  six. 
I  will  try  to  live.  If  you  should  come  back  in  that 
time, — with  meat — the  caribou — you  understand." 
His  voice  trailed  away,  unwilling  to  mock  the  face 
of  probability  with  such  a  chance. 

Dick  nodded  again.  He  had  nothing  to  say.  He 
wrung  the  old  man's  hand  and  turned  away. 

Mack  thrust  his  nose  forward.    They  started. 

Sam,  left  alone,  rolled  himself  again  in  his  thick 
coverings  under  the  snow,  which  would  protect  him 
from  the  night  cold.  There  he  would  lie  absolutely 
motionless,  hoarding  the  drops  of  his  life.  From 


270  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

time  to  time,  at  long  intervals,  he  would  taste  the 
pemmican.  And  characteristically  enough,  his  re- 
gret, his  sorrow,  was,  not  that  he  must  be  left  to 
perish,  not  even  that  he  must  acknowledge  himself 
beaten,  but  that  he  was  deprived  of  the  chance  for 
this  last  desperate  dash  before  death  stooped. 

When  Dick  stepped  out  on  the  trail,  May-may- 
gwan  followed.  After  a  moment  he  took  cogni- 
sance of  the  crunch  of  her  snow-shoes  behind  him. 
He  turned  and  curtly  ordered  her  back.  She  per- 
sisted. Again  he  turned,  his  face  nervous  with  all 
the  strength  he  had  summoned  for  the  final  effort, 
shouting  at  her  hoarsely,  laying  on  her  the  anger 
of  his  command.  She  seemed  not  to  hear  him.  He 
raised  his  fist  and  beat  her,  hitting  her  again  and 
again,  finally  reaching  her  face.  She  went  down 
silently,  without  even  a  moan.  But  when  he  stared 
back  again,  after  the  next  dozen  steps,  she  had 
risen  and  was  still  tottering  on  along  the  Trail. 

He  threw  his  hands  up  with  a  gesture  of  aban- 
donment. Then  without  a  word,  grim  and  terrible, 
he  put  his  head  down  and  started. 

He  never  looked  back.  Madness  held  him. 
Finesse,  saving,  the  crafty  utilising  of  small  advan- 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-SEVEN  271 

tages  had  had  their  day.  It  was  the  moment  for 
brute  strength.  All  day  he  swung  on  in  a  swirl  of 
snow,  tireless.  The  landscape  swam  about  him,  the 
white  glare  searched  out  the  inmost  painful  recesses 
of  his  brain.  He  knew  enough  to  keep  his  eyes  shut 
most  of  the  time,  trusting  to  Mack.  At  noon  he 
divided  accurately  the  entire  food  supply  with  the 
animal.  At  night  he  fasted.  The  two,  man  and 
dog,  slept  huddled  close  together  for  the  sake  of  the 
warmth.  At  midnight  the  girl  crept  in  broken  and 
exhausted. 

The  next  day  Dick  was  as  wonderful.  A  man 
strong  in  meat  could  not  have  travelled  so.  The 
light  snow  whirled  behind  him  in  a  cloud.  The  wind 
of  his  going  strained  the  capote  from  his  emaciated 
face.  So,  in  the  nature  of  the  man,  he  would  go 
until  the  end.  Then  he  would  give  out  all  at  once, 
would  fall  from  full  life  to  complete  dissolution  of 
forces.  Behind  him,  pitifully  remote,  pitifully 
bent,  struggling  futilely,  obsessed  by  a  mania  as 
strong  as  that  of  these  madmen  who  persisted  even 
beyond  the  end  of  all  things,  was  the  figure  of  the 
girl.  She  could  not  stand  upright,  she  could  not 
breathe,  yet  she,  too,  followed  the  T?ail,  that  dread 


272  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

symbol  of  so  many  hopes  and  ideals  and  despairs. 
Dick  did  not  notice  her,  did  not  remember  her  ex- 
istence, any  more  than  he  remembered  the  existence 
of  Sam  Bolton,  of  trees,  of  streams,  of  summer  and 
warm  winds,  of  the  world,  of  the  devil,  of  God, 
of  himself. 

All  about  him  the  landscape  swayed  like  mist; 
the  suns  danced  indecent  revel ;  specks  and  blotches, 
the  beginning  of  snow-blindness,  swam  grotesquely 
projected  into  a  world  less  real  than  they.  Living 
things  moved  everywhere.  Ordinarily  the  man  paid 
no  attention  to  them,  knowing  them  for  what  they 
were,  but  once,  warned  by  some  deep  and  subtle  in- 
stinct, he  made  the  effort  to  clear  his  vision  and  saw 
a  fox.  By  another  miracle  he  killed  it.  The  car- 
cass he  divided  with  his  dog.  He  gave  none  of  it  to 
the  girl. 

By  evening  of  the  second  day  he  had  not  yet 
overtaken  his  quarry.  But  the  trail  was  evidently 
fresher,  and  the  fox's  meat  gave  him  another 
chance.  He  slept,  as  before,  with  Mack  the  hound ; 
and,  as  before,  May-may-gwa'n  crept  in  hours  later 
to  fall  exhausted. 

And  over  the  three  figures,  lying  as  dead,  the 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-SEVEN  273 

North  whirred  in  the  wind,  waiting  to  stoop,  tri- 
umphing, glorying  that  she  had  brought  the  boasts 
of  men  to  nothing. 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-EIGHT 

The  next  morning  was  the  third  day.  There  was  no 
delay  in  getting  started.  All  Dick  had  to  do  was  to 
roll  his  blanket.  He  whirled  on,  still  with  his  im- 
petuous, fictitious  vigour  unimpaired.  The  girl 
staggered  after  him  ten  feet,  then  pitched  forward. 
He  turned  uncertainly.  She  reached  out  to  touch 
him.  Her  eyes  said  a  farewell.  It  was  the  end. 

Dick  stood  a  moment,  his  eyes  vague.  Then  me- 
chanically he  put  his  head  down,  mechanically  he 
looked  for  the  Trail,  mechanically  he  shot  away 
alone,  alone  except  for  the  faithful,  gaunt  hound, 
the  only  thing  that  remained  to  him  out  of  a  whole 
world  of  living  beings. 

To  his  fevered  vision  the  Trail  was  becoming 
fresher.  Every  step  he  took  gave  him  the  impres- 
sion of  so  much  gained,  as  though  the  man  he  was 
in  pursuit  of  was  standing  still  waiting  to  be  taken. 
For  the  first  time  in  months  the  conviction  of  abso- 
lute success  took  possession  of  him.  His  sight 
274 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-EIGHT  27.1 

cleared,  his  heart  beat  strong,  his  whole  being  quiv- 
ered with  vigour.  The  illusion  of  the  North  faded 
away  like  a  mist.  The  world  was  a  flat  plain  of 
snow,  with  here  and  there  a  stunted  spruce,  knee- 
high,  protruding  above  it,  and  with  here  and  there 
an  inequality  of  hidden  bowlders  and  rounded 
knolls.  Far  off  was  the  horizon,  partially  hidden 
in  the  normal  snow-fog  of  this  time  of  year.  All 
objects  were  stationary,  solid,  permanent.  Even 
the  mock  suns  were  only  what  was  to  be  expected  in 
so  high  a  latitude.  Dick  was  conscious  of  arguing 
these  things  to  himself  with  extraordinary  accuracy 
of  logic.  He  proved  a  glow  of  happiness  in  the 
clarity  of  his  brain,  in  the  ease  of  his  body,  in  the 
certainty  of  his  success.  The  candle  flared  clear 
before  its  expiration. 

For  some  moments  he  enjoyed  this  feeling  of 
well-being,  then  a  disturbing  element  insinuated  it- 
self. At  first  it  was  merely  an  uneasiness,  which  he 
could  not  place,  a  vague  and  nebulous  irritation,  a 
single  crumpled  rose-leaf.  Then  it  grew  to  the 
proportions  of  a  menace  which  banked  his  horizon 
with  thunder,  though  the  sun  still  shone  overhead. 
Finally  it  became  a  terror,  clutching  him  at  the 


£76  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

throat.  He  seemed  to  feel  the  need  of  identifying 
it.  By  an  effort  he  recognised  it  as  a  lack.  Some- 
thing was  missing  without  which  there  was  for  him 
no  success,  no  happiness,  no  well-being,  no  strength, 
no  existence.  That  something  he  must  find.  In  the 
search  his  soul  descended  again  to  the  region  of 
dread,  the  regions  of  phantasmagoria.  The  earth 
heaved  and  rocked  and  swam  in  a  sea  of  cold  and 
glaring  light.  Strange  creatures,  momentarily 
changing  shape  and  size,  glided  monstrous  across 
the  middle  distance.  The  mock  suns  danced  in  the 
heavens. 

Twice  he  stopped  short  and  listened.  In  his 
brain  the  lack  was  defining  itself  as  the  lack  of  a 
sound.  It  was  something  he  had  always  been  used 
to.  Now  it  had  been  taken  away.  The  world  was 
silent  in  its  deprivation,  and  the  silence  stifled  him. 
It  had  been  something  so  usual  that  he  had  never 
noticed  it ;  its  absence  called  it  to  his  attention  for 
the  first  time.  So  far  in  the  circle  his  mind  ran; 
then  swung  back.  He  beat  his  forehead.  Great  as 
were  the  sufferings  of  his  body,  they  were  as  noth- 
ing compared  with  these  unreal  torturings  of  his 
maddened  brain. 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-EIGHT  277 

For  the  third  time  he  stopped,  his  head  sidewise 
in  the  attitude  of  listening.  At  once  easily,  without 
effort,  he  knew.  All  these  months  behind  him  had 
sounded  the  crunch  of  snow-shoes.  All  these 
months  about  him,  wrapping  him  so  softly  that  he 
had  never  been  conscious  of  it,  had  been  the  wor- 
ship of  a  great  devotion.  Now  they  were  taken 
away,  he  missed  them.  His  spirit,  great  to  with- 
stand the  hardships  of  the  body,  strong  to  deny  it- 
self, so  that  even  at  the  last  he  had  resisted  the 
temptation  of  hunger  and  divided  with  his  dog,  in 
its  weakened  condition  could  not  stand  the  expo- 
sure to  the  loneliness,  to  the  barren  winds  of  a  peo- 
pleless  world. 

A  long  minute  he  stood,  listening,  demanding 
against  all  reason  to  hear  the  crunch,  crunch, 
crunch  that  should  tell  him  he  was  not  alone.  Then, 
without  a  glance  at  the  Trail  he  had  followed  so 
long,  he  turned  back. 


CHAPTER   TWENTY-NINE 

The  girl  was  lying  face  down  as  he  had  left  her. 
Already  the  windrow  of  the  snow  was  beginning  to 
form,  like  the  curve  of  a  wave  about  to  break  over 
her  prostrate  body.  He  sat  down  beside  her,  and 
gathered  her  into  his  arms,  throwing  the  thick  three- 
point  blanket  with  its  warm  lining  over  the  bent 
forms  of  both.  At  once  it  was  as  though  he  had  al- 
ways been  there,  his  back  to  the  unceasing  winds,  a 
permanence  in  the  wilderness.  The  struggles  of  the 
long,  long  trail  withdrew  swiftly  into  the  past — 
they  had  never  been.  And  through  the  unreality 
of  this  feeling  shot  a  single  illuminating  shaft  of 
truth:  never  would  he  find  in  himself  the  power  to 
take  the  trail  again.  The  bubbling  fever-height 
of  his  energies  suddenly  drained  away. 

Mack,  the  hound,  lay  patiently  at  his  feet.  He, 
too,  suffered,  and  he  did  not  understand,  but  that 
did  not  matter;  his  faithfulness  could  not  doubt. 

For  a  single  instant  it  occurred  to  the  young  man 
278 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-NINE  279 

that  he  might  kill  the  dog,  and  so  procure  nourish- 
ment with  which  to  extricate  himself  and  the  girl ; 
but  the  thought  drifted  idly  through  his  mind,  and 
so  on  and  away.  It  did  not  matter.  He  could 
never  again  follow  that  Trail,  and  a  few  days  more 
or  less 

The  girl  sighed  and  opened  her  eyes.  They 
widened. 

"  Jibiwanisi !"  she  whispered. 

Her  eyes  remained  fixed  on  his  face,  puzzling  out 
the  mere  facts.  Then  all  at  once  they  softened. 

"You  came  back,"  she  murmured. 

Dick  did  not  reply.  He  drew  her  a  little  closer 
into  his  arms. 

For  a  long  time  they  said  nothing.  Then  the 
girl: 

"It  has  come,  Jibiwanisi,  we  must  die,"  and  after 
a  moment,  "You  came  back." 

She  closed  her  eyes  again,  happily. 

"Why  did  you  come  back?"  she  asked  after  a 
while. 

"I  do  not  know,"  said  Dick. 

The  snow  sifted  here  and  there  like  beach  sand. 
Occasionally  the  dog  shook  himself  free  of  it,  but 


280  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

over  the  two  human  beings  it  flung,  little  by  little, 
the  whiteness  of  its  uniformity,  a  warm  mantle 
against  the  freezing.  They  became  an  integral  part 
of  the  landscape,  permanent  as  it,  coeval  with  its 
rocks  and  hills,  ancient  as  the  world,  a  symbol  of  ob- 
scure passions  and  instincts  and  spiritual  beauties 
old  as  the  human  race. 

Abruptly  Dick  spoke,  his  voice  harsh. 

"We  die  here,  Little  Sister.  I  do  not  regret.  I 
have  done  the  best  in  me.  It  is  well  for  me  to  die. 
But  this  is  not  your  affair.  It  was  not  for  you  to 
give  your  life.  Had  you  not  followed  you  would 
now  be  warm  in  the  wigwams  of  your  people.  This 
is  heavy  on  my  heart." 

"Was  it  for  this  you  came  back  to  me?"  she  in- 
quired. 

Dick  considered.    "No,"  he  replied. 

"The  south  wind  blows  warm  on  me,"  she  said, 
after  a  moment. 

The  man  thought  her  mind  wandered  with  the 
starvation,  but  this  was  not  the  case.  Her  speech 
had  made  one  of  those  strange  lapses  into  rhetoric 
so  common  to  the  savage  peoples. 

"Jibiwdnisi,"  she  went  on  solemnly,  "to  me  now 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-NINE  281 

this  is  a  land  where  the  trees  are  green  and  the 
waters  flow  and  the  sun  shines  ajid  the  fat  deer  are 
in  the  grasses.  My  heart  sings  like  the  birds. 
What  should  I  care  for  dying?  It  is  well  to  die 
when  one  is  happy." 

"Are  you  happy,  May-may-gwan  ?"  asked 
Dick. 

For  answer  she  raised  her  eyes  to  his.  Freed  of 
the  distraction  of  another  purpose,  clarified  by  the 
near  approach  of  death,  his  spirit  looked,  and  for 
the  first  time  understood. 

"May-may-gwan,  I  did  not  know,"  said  he, 
awed. 

He  meant  that  he  had  not  before  perceived  her 
love  for  him.  She  thought  he  had  not  before  real- 
ised his  love  for  her.  Her  own  affection  seemed  to 
her  as  self-evident  as  the  fact  that  her  eyes  were 
black. 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  hastened  to  comfort  what  she 
supposed  must  be  his  distress,  "I  know.  But  you 
turned  back." 

She  closed  her  eyes  again  and  appeared  to  doze  in 
a  happy  dream.  The  North  swooped  above  them 
like  some  greedy  bird  of  prey. 


282  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

Gradually  in  his  isolation  and  stillness  Dick  be- 
gan to  feel  this.  It  grew  on  him  little  by  little. 
Within  a  few  hours,  by  grace  of  suffering  and  of 
imminent  death,  he  came  into  his  woodsman's  heri- 
tage of  imagination.  Men  like  Sam  Bolton  gained 
it  by  patient  service,  by  living,  by  the  slow  accu- 
mulations of  years,  but  in  essence  it  remained  the 
same.  Where  before  the  young  man  had.  seen  only 
the  naked,  material  facts,  now  he  felt  the  spiritual 
presence,  the  calm,  ruthless,  just,  terrible  Enemy, 
seeking  no  combat,  avoiding  none,  conquering  with 
a  lofty  air  of  predestination,  inevitable,  mighty. 
His  eyes  were  opened,  like  the  prophet's  of  old. 
The  North  hovered  over  him  almost  palpable.  In 
the  strange  borderland  of  mingled  illusion  and  real- 
ity where  now  he  and  starvation  dwelt  he  thought 
sometimes  to  hear  voices,  the  voices  of  his  enemy's 
triumph. 

"Is  it  done?"  they  asked  him,  insistently.  "Is  it 
over?  Are  you  beaten?  Is  your  stubborn  spirit 
at  last  bowed  down,  humiliated,  crushed?  Do  you 
relinquish  the  prize, — and  the  struggle?  Is  it 
done?" 

The  girl  stirred  slightly  in  his  arms.     He  fo« 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-NINE  283 

cussed  his  eyes.  Already  the  day  had  passed,  and 
the  first  streamers  of  the  aurora  were  crackling  in 
the  sky.  They  reduced  this  day,  this  year,  this 
generation  of  men  to  a  pin-point  in  time.  The 
tragedy  enacting  itself  on  the  snow  amounted  to 
nothing.  It  would  soon  be  over:  it  occupied  but 
one  of  many,  many  nights — wherein  the  aurora 
would  crackle  and  shoot  forth  and  ebb  back  in  pre- 
cisely the  same  deathful,  living  way,  as  though  the 
death  of  it  were  the  death  in  this  world,  but  the 
life  of  it  were  a  thing  celestial  and  alien.  The  mo- 
ment, to  these  three  who  perished  the  most  impor- 
tant of  all  the  infinite  millions  of  millions  that  con- 
stitute time,  was  absolutely  without  special  mean- 
ing to  the  wonderful,  flaming,  unearthly  lights  of 
the  North. 

Mack,  the  hound,  lay  in  the  position  he  had  first 
assumed,  his  nose  between  his  outstretched  fore- 
paws.  So  he  had  lain  all  that  day  and  that  night. 
So  it  seemed  he  must  intend  to  lie  until  death  took 
him.  For  on  this  dreadful  j  ourney  Mack  had  risen 
above  the  restrictions  imposed  by  his  status  as  a 
zoological  species,  had  ceased  to  be  merely  a  dog, 
and  by  virtue  of  steadfastness,  of  loyalty,  of  un- 


B84  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

complaining  suffering,  had  entered  into  the  higher 
estate  of  a  living  being  that  has  fearlessly  done  his 
best  in  the  world  before  his  call  to  leave  it. 

The  girl  opened  her  eyes. 

"Jibiwanisi,"  she  said,  faintly,  "the  end  is 
-K>me." 

Agonized,  Dick  forced  himself  to  consciousness 
of  the  landscape.  It  contained  moving  figures  in 
plenty.  One  after  the  other  he  brought  them  with- 
in the  focus  of  scrutiny  and  dissolved  them  into  thin 
air.  If  only  the  caribou  herds 

He  looked  down  again  to  meet  her  eyes. 

"Do  not  grieve.  I  am  happy,  Jibiwanisi,"  she 
whispered. 

After  a  little,  "I  will  die  first,"  and  then,  "This 
land  and  that — there  must  be  a  border.  I  will  be 
waiting  there.  I  will  wait  always.  I  will  not  go 
into  the  land  until  you  come.  I  will  wait  to  see  it — 
with  you.  Oh,  Jibiwanisi,"  she  cried  suddenly, 
with  a  strength  and  passion  in  startling  contrast  to 
her  weakness.  "I  am  yours,  yours,  yours!  You 
are  mine."  She  half  raised  herself  and  seized  his 
two  arms,  searching  his  eyes  with  terror,  trying  to 
reassure  herself,  to  drive  off  the  doubts  that  sud- 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-NINE  285 

denly  had  thronged  upon  her.  "Tell  me,"  she 
shook  him  by  the  arm. 

"I  am  yours,"  Dick  lied,  steadily ;  "my  heart  is 
yours,  I  love  you." 

He  bent  and  kissed  her  on  the  lips.  She  quivered 
and  closed  her  eyes  with  a  deep  sigh. 

Ten  minutes  later  she  died. 


CHAPTER    THIRTY 

This  was  near  the  dawn  of  the  fourth  day.  Dick 
remained  always  in  the  same  attitude,  holding  the 
dead  girl  in  his  arms.  Mack,  the  hound,  lay  as  al- 
ways, loyal,  patient  to  the  last.  After  the  girl's 
departure  the  wind  fell  and  a  great  stillness  seemed 
to  have  descended  on  the  world. 

The  young  man  had  lost  the  significance  of  his 
position,  had  forgotten  the  snow  and  cold  and  lack 
of  food,  had  forgotten  even  the  fact  of  death  which 
he  was  hugging  to  his  breast.  His  powers,  burning 
clear  in  the  spirit,  were  concentrated  on  the  changes 
taking  place  within  himself.  By  these  things  the 
world  of  manhood  was  opened  to  him ;  he  was  no 
longer  a  boy.  To  most  it  comes  as  a  slow  growth. 
With  him  it  was  revelation.  The  completeness  of 
it  shook  him  to  the  foundations  of  life.  He  took  no 
account  of  the  certainty  of  his  own  destruction.  It 
seemed  to  him,  in  the  thronging  of  new  impressions, 

that  he  might  sit  there  forever,  a  buddha  of  con- 

286 


CHAPTER    THIRTY  287 

templation,  looking  on  the  world  as  his  maturity 
had  readjusted  it. 

Never  now  could  he  travel  the  Silent  Places  as 
he  had  heretofore,  stupidly,  blindly,  obstinately, 
unthinkingly,  worse  than  an  animal  in  perception. 
The  wilderness  he  could  front  intelligently,  for  he 
had  seen  her  face.  Never  now  could  he  conduct 
himself  so  selfishly,  so  brutally,  so  without  consid- 
eration, as  though  he  were  the  central  point  of  the 
system,  as  though  there  existed  no  other  prefer- 
ences, convictions,  conditions  of  being  that  might 
require  the  readjustment  of  his  own.  He  saw  these 
others  for  the  first  time.  Never  now  could  he  live 
with  his  fellow  beings  in  such  blindness  of  their  mo- 
tives and  the  passions  of  their  hearts.  His  own 
heart,  like  a  lute,  was  strung  to  the  pitch  of  hu- 
manity. Never  now  could  he  be  guilty  of  such 
harm  as  he  had  unthinkingly  accomplished  on  the 
girl.  His  eyes  were  opened  to  human  suffering. 
The  life  of  the  world  beat  through  his.  The  com- 
passion of  the  greater  humanity  came  to  him  softly, 
as  a  gift  from  the  portals  of  death.  The  full  sa- 
vour of  it  he  knew  at  last,  knew  that  finally  he  had 
rounded  out  the  circle  of  his  domain. 


288  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

This  was  what  life  required  of  his  last  conscious- 
ness. Having  attained  to  it,  the  greater  forces  had 
no  more  concern  with  him.  They  left  him,  a  poor, 
weak,  naked  human  soul  exposed  to  the  terrors  of 
the  North.  For  the  first  time  he  saw  them  in  all 
their  dreadfulness.  They  clutched  him  with  the  fin- 
gers of  cruel  suffering  so  that  his  body  was  wracked 
with  the  tortures  of  dissolution.  They  flung  before 
his  eyes  the  obscene,  unholy  shapes  of  illusion. 
They  filled  his  ears  with  voices.  He  was  afraid. 
He  cowered  down,  covering  his  eyes  with  his  fore- 
arms, and  trembled,  and  sobbed,  and  uttered  little, 
moans.  He  was  alone  in  the  world,  alone  with  ene- 
mies who  had  him  in  their  power  and  would  destroy 
him.  He  feared  to  look  up.  The  man's  spirit  was 
broken.  All  the  accumulated  terrors  which  his  res- 
olute spirit  had  thrust  from  him  in  the  long  months 
of  struggle,  rushed  in  on  him  now  that  his  guard 
was  down.  They  rioted  in  the  empty  chambers  of 
his  soul. 

"Is  it  done?"  they  shrieked  in  triumph.  "Is  it 
over?  Are  you  beaten?  Is  your  spirit  crushed?  Jj 
the  victory  ours?  Is  it  done?" 

Dick  shivered  and  shrank  as  from  a  blow. 


CHAPTER    THIRTY  289 

"Is  it  done?"  the  voices  insisted.     "Is  it  over? 

Are  you  beaten?    Is  it  done?" 

The  man  shrieked  aloud  in  agony. 

"Oh,  my  God !"  he  cried.    "Oh,  yes,  yes,  yes !    I 

am  beaten.     I  can  do  nothing.     Kill  me.     It  m 

done." 


CHAPTER    THIRTY-ONE 

As  though  these  words  were  a  signal,  Mack,  the 
hound,  who  had  up  to  now  rested  as  motionless  as 
though  frozen  to  his  place,  raised  himself  on  his 
haunches  and  gazed  earnestly  to  the  north. 

In  the  distance  Dick  seemed  to  make  out  an  ob- 
ject moving.  As  he  had  so  often  done  before,  by 
an  effort  he  brought  his  eyes  to  focus,  expecting,  as 
also  had  happened  so  often  before,  that  the  object 
would  disappear.  But  it  persisted,  black  against 
the  snow.  Its  outlines  could  not  be  guessed ;  its  dis- 
tance could  not  be  estimated,  its  direction  of  travel 
could  not  be  determined.  Only  the  bare  fact  of  its 
existence  was  sure.  Somewhere  out  in  the  waste  it, 
moving,  antithesised  these  other  three  black  masses 
on  the  whiteness,  the  living  man,  the  living  animal, 
the  dead  girl. 

Dick  variously  identified  it.  At  one  moment  he 
thought  it  a  marten  near  at  hand ;  then  it  became  a 

caribou   far  away;  then  a  fox  between  the  two* 
290 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-ONE  291 

Finally,  instantaneously,  as  though  at  a  bound  it 
had  leaped  from  indeterminate  mists  to  the  com- 
monplace glare  of  every  day,  he  saw  it  was  a  man. 

The  man  was  moving  painfully,  lifting  each  foot 
with  an  appearance  of  great  effort,  stumbling,  stag- 
gering sideways  from  time  to  time  as  though  in  ex- 
treme weakness.  Once  he  fell.  Then  he  recovered 
the  upright  as  though  necklaced  with  great 
weights.  His  hands  were  empty  of  weapons.  In 
the  uncertainty  of  his  movements  he  gradually  ap- 
proached. 

Now  Dick  could  see  the  great  emaciation  of  his 
features.  The  bones  of  his  cheeks  seemed  to  press 
through  his  skin,  which  was  leathery  and  scabbed 
and  cracked  to  the  raw  from  much  frosting.  His 
lips  drew  tight  across  his  teeth,  which  grinned  in 
the  face  of  exhaustion  like  the  travesty  of  laughter 
on  a  skull.  His  eyes  were  lost  in  the  caverns  of 
their  sockets.  His  thin  nostrils  were  wide,  and 
through  them  and  through  the  parted  lips  the 
breath  came  and  went  in  strong,  rasping  gasps, 
audible  even  at  this  distance  of  two  hundred  paces. 
One  live  thing  this  wreck  of  a  man  expressed.  His 
forces  were  near  their  end,  but  such  of  them  as  re- 


THE  SILENT  PLACES 
mained  were  concentrated  in  a  determination  to  go 
on.  He  moved  painfully,  but  he  moved ;  he  stag- 
gered, but  he  always  recovered ;  he  fell,  and  it  was 
a  terrible  labour  to  rise,  but  always  he  rose  and 
went  on. 

Dick  Herron,  sitting  there  with  the  dead  girl 
across  his  knees,  watched  the  man  with  a  strange, 
detached  curiosity.  His  mind  had  slipped  back  into 
its  hazes.  The  world  of  phantasms  had  resumed 
its  sway.  He  was  seeing  in  this  struggling  figure 
a  vision  of  himself  as  he  had  been,  the  self  he  had 
transcended  now,  and  would  never  again  resume. 
Just  so  he  had  battled,  bringing  to  the  occasion 
every  last  resource  of  the  human  spirit,  tearing 
from  the  deeps  of  his  nature  the  roots  where  life 
germinated  and  throwing  them  recklessly  before 
the  footsteps  of  his  endeavour,  emptying  himself, 
wringing  himself  to  a  dry,  fibrous  husk  of  a  man 
that  his  Way  might  be  completed.  His  lips  parted 
with  a  sigh  of  relief  that  this  was  all  over.  He  was 
as  an  old  man  whose  life,  for  good  or  ill,  success  or 
failure,  is  done,  and  who  looks  from  the  serenity 
of  age  on  those  who  have  still  their  youth  to  spend, 
their  years  to  dole  out  day  by  day,  painfully,  in 


CHAPTER    THIRTY-ONE  293 

the  intense  anxiety  of  the  moral  purpose,  as  the 
price  of  life.  In  a  spell  of  mysticism  he  sat  there 
waiting. 

The  man  plodded  on,  led  by  some  compelling 
fate,  to  the  one  spot  in  the  white  immensity  where 
were  living  creatures.  When  he  had  approached 
to  within  fifty  paces,  Dick  could  see  his  eyes.  They 
were  tight  closed.  As  the  young  man  watched,  the 
other  opened  them,  but  instantly  blinked  them  shut 
again  as  though  he  had  encountered  the  searing  of 
a  white-hot  iron.  Dick  Herron  understood.  The 
man  had  gone  snow-blind. 

And  then,  singularly  enough  for  the  first  time, 
it  was  borne  in  on  him  who  this  man  was,  what  was 
the  significance  of  his  return.  Jingoss,  the  rene- 
gade Ojibway,  the  defaulter,  the  maker  of  the 
dread,  mysterious  Trail  that  had  led  them  so  far 
into  this  grim  land,  Jingoss  was  blind,  and,  imag- 
ining himself  still  going  north,  still  treading  me- 
chanically the  hopeless  way  of  his  escape,  had  be- 
come bewildered  and  turned  south. 

Dick  waited,  mysteriously  held  to  inaction, 
watching  the  useless  efforts  of  this  other  from  the 
vantage  ground  of  a  wonderful  fatalism, — as  the 


294,  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

North  had  watched  him.  The  Indian  plodded  dog- 
gedly on,  on,  on.  He  entered  the  circle  of  the  little 
camp.  Dick  raised  his  rifle  and  pressed  its  muzzle 
against  the  man's  chest. 

"Stop !"  he  commanded,  his  voice  croaking  harsh 
across  the  stillness. 

The  Indian,  with  a  sob  of  mingled  emotion,  in 
which,  strangely  enough,  relief  seemed  the  predom- 
inant note,  collapsed  to  the  ground.  The  North, 
insistent  on  the  victory  but  indifferent  to  the  stake, 
tossed  carelessly  the  prize  at  issue  into  the  hands  of 
her  beaten  antagonist. 

And  then,  dim  and  ghostly,  rank  after  rank, 
across  the  middle  distance  drifted  the  caribou  herds. 


CHAPTER   THIRTY-TWO 

It  was  beyond  the  middle  of  summer.  The  day  had 
been  hot,  but  now  the  velvet  night  was  descending. 
The  canoe  had  turned  into  the  channel  at  the  head 
of  the  island  on  which  was  situated  Conjuror's 
House.  The  end  of  the  journey  was  at  hand. 

Dick  paddled  in  the  bow.  His  face  had  regained 
its  freshness,  but  not  entirely  its  former  boyish 
roundness.  The  old  air  of  bravado  again  sat  his 
spirit — a  man's  nature  persists  to  the  end,  and  im- 
mortal and  unquenchable  youth  is  a  gift  of  the 
gods — but  in  the  depths  of  his  strange,  narrow 
eyes  was  a  new  steadiness,  a  new  responsibility,  the 
well-known,  quiet,  competent  look  invariably  a 
characteristic  of  true  woodsmen.  At  his  feet  lay 
the  dog,  one  red-rimmed  eye  cocked  up  at  the  man 
who  had  gone  down  to  the  depths  in  his  company. 

The  Indian  Jingoss  sat  amidships,  his  hands 
bound  strongly  with  buckskin  thongs,  a  man  of  me- 
dium size,  broad  face,  beady  eyes  with  surface 

tti 


296  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

lights.  He  had  cost  much:  he  was  to  be  given  no 
chan«  :e  to  escape.  Always  his  hands  remained  bound 
with  the  buckskin  thongs,  except  at  times  when  Dick 
or  Sam  stood  over  him  with  a  rifle.  At  night  his 
wrists  were  further  attached  to  one  of  Sam's. 
Mack,  too,  understood  the  situation,  and  guarded 
as  jealously  as  did  his  masters. 

Sam  wielded  the  steersman's  paddle.  His  ap- 
pearance was  absolutely  unaffected  by  this  one  epi- 
sode in  a  long  life. 

They  rounded  the  point  into  the  main  sweep  of 
the  east  river,  stole  down  along  the  bank  in  the 
gathering  twilight,  and  softly  beached  their  canoe 
below  the  white  buildings  of  the  Factory.  With  a 
muttered  word  of  command  to  their  captive,  they 
disembarked  and  climbed  the  steepness  of  the  low 
bluff  to  the  grass-plot  above.  The  dog  followed 
at  their  heels. 

Suddenly  the  impression  of  this  year,  until  now 
so  vividly  a  part  of  the  present,  was  stricken  into 
the  past,  the  past  of  memory.  Up  to  the  very  in- 
stant of  topping  the  bluff  it  had  been  life ;  now  it 
was  experience. 

For  the  Post  was  absolutely  unchanged  from  that 


CHAPTER    THIRTY-TWO  297 

other  summer  evening  of  over  a  year  ago  when  they 
had  started  out  into  the  Silent  Places.  The  famil- 
iarity of  this  fact,  hitherto,  for  some  strange  reason, 
absolutely  unexpected,  reassured  them  their  places 
in  the  normal  world  of  living  beings.  The  dead  vis- 
ion of  the  North  had  left  in  their  spirits  a  residuum 
of  its  mysticism.  Their  experience  of  her  power  had 
induced  in  them  a  condition  of  mind  when  it  would 
not  have  surprised  them  to  discover  the  world  shak- 
en to  its  foundations,  as  their  souls  had  been  shaken. 
But  here  were  familiar,  peaceful  things,  un- 
changed, indifferent  even  to  the  passing  of  time. 
Involuntarily  they  drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief, 
and,  without  knowing  it,  re-entered  a  sanity  which 
had  not  been  entirely  theirs  since  the  snows  of  the 
autumn  before. 

Over  by  the  guns,  indistinct  in  the  falling  twi- 
light, the  accustomed  group  of  voyageurs  and  post- 
keepers  were  chatting,  smoking,  humming  songs  in 
the  accustomed  way.  The  low  velvet  band  of  forest 
against  the  sky ;  the  dim  squares  of  the  log-houses 
punctuated  with  their  dots  of  lamplight ;  the  masses 
of  the  Storehouse,  the  stockade,  the  Factory;  the 
long  flag-staff  like  a  mast  against  the  stars ;  the  con- 


298  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

stant  impression  of  human  life  and  activity, — 
these  anodynes  of  accustomedness  steadied  these 
men's  faith  to  the  supremacy  of  human  institu- 
tions. 

On  the  Factory  veranda  could  be  dimly  made  out 
the  figures  of  a  dozen  men.  They  sat  silent.  Occa- 
sionally a  cigar  glowed  brighter  for  a  moment,  then 
dulled.  Across  a  single  square  of  subdued  light 
the  smoke  eddied. 

The  three  travellers  approached,  Sam  Bolton  in 
the  lead,  peering  through  the  dusk  in  search  of  his 
chief.  In  a  moment  he  made  him  out,  sitting,  as 
always,  square  to  the  world,  his  head  sunk  forward, 
his  eyes  gleaming  from  beneath  the  white  tufts  of 
his  eyebrows.  At  once  the  woodsmen  mounted  the 
steps. 

No  one  stirred  or  spoke.  Only  the  smokers  sus- 
pended their  cigars  in  mid-air  a  few  inches  from 
their  faces  in  the  most  perfect  attitude  of  attention. 

"Galen  Albret,"  announced  the  old  woodsman, 
"here  is  the  Ojibway,  Jingoss." 

The  Factor  stirred  slightly ;  his  bulk,  the  signifi- 
cance of  his  features  lost  in  obscurity. 

"Me-en-gen  !"  he  called,  sharply. 


CHAPTER    THIRTY-TWO  299 

The  tall,  straight  figure  of  his  Indian  familiar 
glided  from  the  dusk  of  the  veranda's  end. 

"To-morrow  at  smoke  time,"  commanded  the 
Factor,  using  the  Ojibway  tongue,  "let  this  man  be 
whipped  before  the  people,  fifty  lashes.  Then  let 
him  be  chained  to  the  Tree  for  the  space  of  one 
week,  and  let  it  be  written  above  him  in  Ojibway 
and  in  Cree  that  thus  Galen  Albret  punishes  those 
who  steal." 

Without  a  word  Me-en-gan  took  the  defaulter  by 
the  arm  and  conducted  him  away. 

Galen  Albret  had  fallen  into  a  profound  silence, 
which  no  one  ventured  to  break.  Dick  and  Sam, 
uncertain  as  to  whether  or  not  they,  too,  were  dis- 
missed, shifted  uneasily. 

"How  did  you  find  him?"  demanded  the  Factor, 
abruptly. 

"We  went  with  old  Haukemah's  band  down  as 
far  as  the  Mattawishguia.  There  we  left  them  and 
went  up  stream  and  over  the  divide.  Dick  here 
broke  his  leg  and  was  laid  up  for  near  three  months. 
I  looked  all  that  district  over  while  he  was  getting 
well.  Then  we  made  winter  travel  down  through 
the  Kabinik&gam  country  and  looked  her  over.  We 


800  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

got  track  of  this  Jingoss  over  near  the  hills,  but  he 
got  wind  of  us  and  skipped  when  we  was  almost  op 
top  of  him.  We  took  his  trail.  He  went  straight 
north,  trying  to  shake  us  off,  and  we  got  up  into 
the  barren  country.  We'd  have  lost  him  in  the 
snow  if  it  hadn't  been  for  that  dog  there.  He  could 
trail  him  through  new  snow.  We  run  out  of 
grub  up  there,  and  finally  I  gave  out.  Dick  here 
pushed  on  alone  and  found  the  Injun  wandering 
around  snow-blind.  He  run  onto  some  caribou 
about  that  time,  too,  and  killed  some.  Then  he 
came  back  and  got  me: — I  had  a  little  pemmican 
and  boiled  my  moccasins.  We  had  lots  of  meat, 
so  we  rested  up  a  couple  of  weeks,  and  then  came 
back." 

That  was  all.  These  men  had  done  a  great  thing, 
and  thus  simply  they  told  it.  And  they  only  told 
that  much  of  it  because  it  was  their  duty;  they 
must  report  to  their  chief. 

Galen  Albret  seemed  for  a  moment  to  consider,  as 
was  his  habit. 

"You  have  done  well,"  he  pronounced  at  last. 
"My  confidence  in  you  was  justified.  The  pay 
stands  as  agreed.  In  addition  I  place  you  in  charge 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-TWO  301 

of  the  post  at  Lost  River,  and  you,  Herron,  in 
charge  of  the  Mattagami  Brigade." 

The  men  flushed,  deeply  pleased,  more  than  re- 
warded, not  by  the  money  nor  the  advancement,  but 
by  the  unqualified  satisfaction  of  their  commander. 

They  turned  away.  At  this  moment  Virginia 
Albret,  on  some  errand  to  her  father,  appeared 
outlined  in  slender  youth  against  the  doorway.  On 
the  instant  she  recognized  them. 

"Why,  Sam  and  Dick,"  she  said,  "I  am  glad  to 
see  you.  When  did  you  get  back?" 

"Just  back,  Miss  Virginia,"  replied  Sam. 

"That's  good.  I  hope  you've  had  a  successful 
trip." 

"Yes,"  answered  Sam.  The  woodsman  stood 
there  a  little  awkwardly,  wishing  to  be  polite,  not 
sure  as  to  whether  they  should  now  go  without  fur- 
ther dismissal. 

"See,  Miss  Virginia,"  hesitated  Sam,  to  fill  in  the 
pause,  "I  have  your  handkerchief  yet." 

"I'm  glad  you  kept  it,  Sam,"  replied  the  young 
girl;  "and  have  you  yours,  Dick?" 

And  suddenly  to  Dick  the  contrast  between  this 
reality  and  that  other  came  home  with  the  vividness 


302  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

of  a  picture.  He  saw  again  the  snow-swept  plain*, 
the  wavering  shapes  of  illusion,  the  mock  suns  danc- 
ing in  unholy  revel.  The  colour  of  the  North 
burned  before  his  eyes ;  a  madness  of  the  North  un- 
sealed his  lips. 

"I  used  it  to  cover  a  dead  girl's  face,"  he  replied, 
bluntly. 

The  story  had  been  as  gray  as  a  report  of  statis- 
tics,— so  many  places  visited,  so  much  time  con- 
sumed. The  men  smoking  cigars,  lounging  on 
cushioned  seats  in  the  tepid  summer  air,  had  listened 
to  it  unimpressed,  as  one  listens  to  the  reading  of 
minutes  of  a  gathering  long  past.  This  simple  sen- 
tenced breathed  into  it  life.  The  magnitude  of  the 
undertaking  sprang  up  across  the  horizon  of  their 
comprehension.  They  saw  between  the  mile-post 
markings  of  Sam  Bolton's  dry  statements  of  fact, 
glimpses  of  vague,  mysterious,  and  terrible  deeds, 
indistinct,  wonderful.  The  two  before  them  loomed 
big  in  the  symbolism  of  the  wide  world  of  men's 
endurance  and  determination  and  courage. 

The  darkness  swallowed  them  before  the  group 
on  the  veranda  had  caught  its  breath.  In  a  mo- 
ment the  voices  about  the  cannon  raised  in  greeting. 


CHAPTER    THIRTY-TWO  SOS 

A  swift  play  of  question  and  answer  shot  back  and 
forth.  "Out  all  the  year?"  "Where?  Kabinika- 
gam?  Oh,  yes,  east  of  Brunswick  Lake."  "Good 
trip?"  "That's  right."  "Glad  of  it."  Then  the 
clamour  rose,  many  beseeching,  one  refusing.  The 
year  was  done.  These  men  had  done  a  mighty  deed, 
and  yet  a  few  careless  answers  were  all  they  had  to 
tell  of  it.  The  group,  satisfied,  were  begging 
another  song.  And  so,  in  a  moment,  just  as  a 
year  before,  Dick's  rich,  husky  baritone  raised 
in  the  words  of  the  old  melody.  The  circle  was 
closed. 

"There  was  an  old  darky,  and  his  name  mas  Uncle   Ned, 
And  he  lived  long  ago,  long  ago " 

The  night  hushed  to  silence.  Even  the  wolves 
were  still,  and  the  giddes  down  at  the  Indian  camp 
ceased  their  endless  quarrelling.  Dick's  voice  had 
all  the  world  to  itself.  The  men  on  the  Factory 
veranda  smoked,  the  disks  of  their  cigars  dulling 
and  glowing.  Galen  Albret,  inscrutable,  grim, 
brooded  his  unguessable  thoughts.  Virginia,  in 
the  doorway,  rested  her  head  pensively  against  one 
arm  outstretched  against  the  lintel. 


304  THE    SILENT    PLACES 

"For  there's  no  more  work  for  poor  ohl  Ned, 
He's  gone  where  the  good  darkies  go." 

The  song  finished.  There  succeeded  the  great  com- 
pliment of  quiet. 

To  Virginia  it  was  given  to  speak  the  concluding 
word  of  this  episode.  She  sighed,  stretching  out 
her  arms. 

"  'The  greatness  of  my  people,'  "  she  quoted 
softly. 


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61969 


FEB1H975 


Form  L9-Series  444 


000  101  515     5 


